The Winds of Advent
by darkhelmetj
Summary: A collection of scenes that will fill in the gaps between Lucy Tracy's death, and the time period shown in the movie. Chapter 35, Reflection and Final Thoughts, is up! Story COMPLETE. Thank you everyone for reading!
1. Default Chapter

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_DISCLAIMER - I do not own the rights to Thunderbirds, nor do I intend to make any profit from this story. It is for entertainment purposes only._

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**The Winds of Advent  
December 2010**

I am lying on a bed, my back pushed by gravity against the full comfort of the white linen. I can't see the linen, but I know that it's there; I've spent so many hours in the hospital with my children that I could navigate the halls blind.

How do I know that I'm in the hospital? The constant beeps and chatter of machines is unique to that one setting. Just as the wind blowing through trees has a sound, so does a medical ward.

My head swims for a moment, and I force my eyes open. The bright lights of the wing assault my senses, but bring my mind back to my body so that I am suddenly very aware of where I am.

There are voices around me, many voices, all speaking in time, but it is too much for me to concentrate on at this moment. Right now all I can think about is the fall.

I know that there had been a mono-rail, and that I had been on it, and somehow it had jumped the tracks. It had been unexpected, and I had been standing, reaching over to my husband, Jeff, to -

Jeff!

And now I am as alert as I have ever been in my life. The stark white room around me comes into focus, and I see the group of doctors huddled around the end of my bed. My feet, laying numbly by their arms and clipboards, are covered in layer after layer of white cloth. The rest of my body, which I see as I look down the bed, is also drapped in the type of cloth that is normally associated with angels.

I can tell that the liquid dripping from the IV into my arm is morphine, or something akin to it. My mind, which is normally so clear and in focus, is fogged like a window on a cold December morning.

It's funny, how the window remains in my mind. It's funny how I remember the monorail jumping; how I glanced out the window, through the frosty pane, to see the ground rushing up unexpectedly fast towards my face. How the window and the world around me shattered when it all hit the ground.

It's funny how the window was trying to hide me from the inevitable, from the horror that my brain could not catch up with.

Until now.

A groan escapes my lips, a noise that - had I not been lying prone in a hospital bed - would have sounded feeble to even my ears. I want them to notice me, I want to talk to them! I want to find out what happened to Jeff.

The groan, thankfully, is enough, for I can spare no extra strength. The doctors become silent instantly, and turn as one to look into my face. I don't know what they see there, but the grim gleam in their eyes suggests it is something that they have seen before.

The mind works in strange ways when it is pushed to its limit. My brain right now is able to process only two things - concern for my husband, and anger at the doctors for not speaking to me. I can hear, don't they know that? Why won't they speak to me?

Why won't they help me to sit up and take me to my husband!

A door slams, breaking the silence of my mind, and suddenly Jeff is there at the end of my bed. His face is covered in dirt, and a line of dried blood runs down his face and onto his cheek.

"Jeff," I try to say, only it comes out as more of a whisper than a statement.

As if moving through tar, Jeff slowly walks to the bedside. He kneels down, and gingerly takes my hand in his. His palm feels so warm to the touch. Is he running a fever? He should be laying down if he's sick, not staying beside me. Doesn't he know that I'll be fine?

"Is it bad?" he asks, his voice breaking as he speaks to the nearest medic. I can't see the doctor nod, but as Jeff's face crumbles I can assume that the nod was there.

Why are they so worried about me? I've lived through five child births, and fourteen years of child rearing! I'm in no pain, and my body isn't telling me that anything is wrong.

I can live through this, my mind insists.

"You should be lying down," I say - no, whisper - to Jeff.

He shakes his head, and leans in closer so that his face is nearly touching mine. When he speaks his voice is shaky, and I can see tears beginning to form in his eyes.

"Lucy, I'm here."

What a funny thing to say, I think. "Of course you are, Jeff. You're always here, right beside me."

"And I always will be," he responds, the words barely leaving his mouth. The tears are now running down his face, and in my heart I begin to see what his own mind must already have seen. "Lucy, I'll be here. I'll never let you go."

"I don't want you to let go." The words jump from my mouth, as my heart takes another leap.

And, I think with growing horror, I know why I can't feel my legs. I can, however, feel the thud of the ground, the grinding of the metal, the searing pain and the ensuing blackness as liquifying steel digs into my skin . . .

I can hear the voices again, screaming, the continual grinding of pavement and mono-rail. I feel a hand - Jeff's hand, my mind screams - grab my shoulders and lift me from the ground. The ground is so cold, there is frost forming as red liquid runs onto the black asphault.

"Don't let me go," I cough, trying to keep my eyes open though they are becoming as heavy as brick. "Jeff, don't let me go."

He brings his other hand up and holds it against my face. The rough skin of his fingers tickles against my cheeks. It is the only thing that I can feel now in my entire body.

"God, Lucy, please hold on!"

But his voice is becoming far away, and I'm feeling too tired to keep talking. I need to sleep, need to close my eyes and rest for a bit. Then I'll be fine, I think, I'll be all right.

Just as I close my eyes, I hear the door slam again. The lids snap back open, and I see two blurring shapes flit towards the bed.

"I'm sorry," the doctor says calmly, his voice buzzing in my mind, "you can't be in here."

"Dear god!" Jeff's voice is desperate. "Let them in, good lord."

"Sir, it could be emotionally traumatizing for them-"

"Could be? It already is! Dammit, man, their mother is dying! Don't you even care?"

Dying? My mind shakes itself, and pushes the thought to the side. I'm not dying. I'll wake up tommorow, with enough time to start wrapping the boys' presents for Christmas. They'll be so happy, they always are at this time of the year.

"Dad, what's wrong with mom? What happened? Is she going to be all right?"

And Alan is just getting old enough to understand all of it. Maybe I can convince Scott to dress up as Santa Claus! Or perhaps John will. He'd probably have a wonderful time with that.

"She's leaving us."

I think my mind is fooling me, but I'm sure that I can hear the tinkling of piano keys. It must be Virgil, warming up for the carols. Is it that time already?

"Oh god, no, mom, no, don't go. Please don't go. We need you. I need you."

It's all right, Scott, I'll be fine. Just remind Gordon not to swim in the pool this year. He caught a dreadful chill last time that he tried that, and I don't want to spend another Christmas in the hospital.

"Oh god." John's voice is muffled and quiet, and I've never heard a prayer spoken with such a lack of malice, and with such a complete and total sincerity.

Somewhere, outside, there must be snow falling. And I, wrapped up in white robes, feel like an angel that sits on the top of a tree. My eyes are closed now, yet everything is bathed in such a warm white light! And there are trees, so many trees!

"Lucy, I love you."

I can feel the pine beneath my feet, and suddenly everything else seems infinitely distant. The voices fade, the voices of my children and my husband, and I spread my invisible wings and float away with the gently falling flakes.

For now there is only the sound of the wind blowing between the trees.

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**A/N** - I happened to be bombing around ffnet, and - what do you know! - I find a section devoted to Thunderbirds. And I thought I was the only Tracy fanatic out there. ;)

I've been writing fanfiction for a while, but a few weeks ago I decided to take my turn with the good 'ole T-birds. The movie rekindled my interest, and my muse has been overactive, so . . . amidst the chaos of college, here they are! And, if anyone's curious, John's my fave. I'm an astronomy nerd myself, so there is kindred spirit there. ;)

Hope you guys like the first scene. It was really hard to write, but it just wouldn't leave my brain once it bedded in for the night. There'll be more to come soon!

- darkhelmetj


	2. A Hurricane in Barbados

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_DISCLAIMER - I do not own Thunderbirds, nor do I intend this story to make any profit from the characters, story, or setting of Thunderbirds. I'm just a poor college student trying to make my way through life - this story is for entertainment purposes only._

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**A Hurricane in Barbados  
April 2011**

A soft patter of rain drops fell at the gravesite, tumbling gently from the sky onto the cement walkways below. In the sky, the sun tried vainly to shine through a layer of floating fog. A soft wind blew the clouds about, and sent a fine mist of pollen dancing through the air.

Spring-time already, Jeff Tracy thought, wrapping his arms about his body though it was not the least bit cold outside. _One spring that I never would have imagined spending without Lucy_.

The man closed his eyes, and fell slowly to his knees. Embedded in the grass, a few scarce inches from his body, was a white granite stone. The block was covered in delicate symbols, and was topped with the calming figure of the Virgin Mary.

One part of Jeff condemned himself for not burying Lucy, for instead choosing to have her remains cremated and kept in the family home. The other part condemned him for building the large memorial in the first place. After all, no one else that had died in the crash had the money or time to erect something like this for their loved ones.

And a small part of Jeff, still swimming in the immense grief of the entire accident, couldn't care less about any of it.

He didn't stop the tears this time, as they pooled in his eyes and ran down his cheeks. It was the crying, more than the casual yet heartless prodding of his psychiatrist, that helped him the most.

He had come back three times a week, against the wishes of the professional that he was seeing, to simply sit at the memorial site and let the warm spring breezes whip through his hair. He had no idea why he even came out to the stone, why the graveyard gave him more peace than the ornamental pot that sat by his bedside.

It didn't matter if it rained, if it hailed, or if a hurricane itself rose from the tempest and battered him down; he was always there. Perhaps it was denial, as the shrink was always saying it was, but Jeff couldn't bring himself to let go.

"I tried to fix the problem," he said quietly, wondering in his heart if Lucy could hear him when he spoke to the stone. "I made sure of that."

And that was a promise, Jeff thought, that had been shattered a month later when the same thing had happened again, with a different train, a different city, and a different set of mothers and fathers coming back home from a day at work.

All of the money that he had spent on lawyers, the time that he had donated to try and right the initial flaw in the designs in the first place, had fallen on deaf ears. The lawyers had then tried to convince him to sue the monorail company, but what would that have accomplished?

Jeff wasn't out to bankrupt a company that - for the most part - provided people with a service that they needed. He was, however, willing to uncrease the creases in their programs and exponentially improve the survival factor of their ventures. Yet . . .

"You were right, Lucy," he whispered, looking up for a moment at the sun which had poked itself out of the clouds. "Money can't fix everything."

No one, not the heirs of Bill Gates or the failing sons of the other multi-billion dollar corporations, understood that better than Jeff Tracy did at that moment.

With a bank of billions at his disposal, he had tried to make things right. He had paid for the engineers that no one else could afford, he had turned his own company onto the problem, and in the end had discovered a solution that was now stopping him from putting the death of his wife to proper rest.

It was not that the second accident couldn't have been averted. The solution had been there, the money had been there, and the time had been there. In the end, more than anything else, they just hadn't cared.

And that was what hurt him the most. A humanist at heart, Jeff could not bring himself to accept the fact that there were those out there who had the resources available to fix a problem, yet chose not to.

There had been an accident, a deadly accident where twenty people - including Lucy - had been killed. The executives should have learned from the mistake, should have looked to the future, and should have taken every precaution to stop it from happening again.

Tell that to the new dead, Jeff thought, who died because someone somewhere didn't feel like reading a document, or couldn't care enough to take the time out to sign a contract. Tell that to those mothers and fathers who are left to explain to their children why it was their own parent that didn't survive that crash.

"Tell that to my sons!" screamed Jeff in anguish, the harshness of his own voice grating against his mind. "Explain that to my youngest, who's going to go to school this fall for the first time, who won't have a mom around to pack up his lunch for him!"

The words took everything from him, the words that he hadn't spoken in court and had held back when he had addressed the executive directors themselves.

He felt defeated, he felt lost, and he felt helpless - just as he had as the monorail had jumped, as he had looked Lucy in the eye the exact moment that the car had hit the ground.

The thought Lucy's face, however, gave him enough strength to push himself to his feet, to wipe the tears from his cheeks, and to turn from the stone and begin the slow walk home. It was the same every week, every month, and Jeff did not no what he could do to put his mind at rest for good.

All he could do, his mind thought bitterly, was to silently antagonise those responsible, and hope that something would change in the world in the future.

Closing the door of his home quietly behind him, Jeff pulled off his coat and hung it onto the ornamental rack that sat by the entrance. He walked carefully along the main hall, taking special care not to make any extra noise that could wake his sons up in the early hours of the morning.

He was, quite expectedly, surprised when he cracked open the door to the rec room only to find his second eldest sitting in front of a glowing television set. John Tracy, his stark blond hair plastered in a messy fashion about his face, let his head fall sleepily to the side as his eyes followed the action on the screen without blinking.

"What are you doing up so early? Was there a meteor shower tonight?" Jeff asked, to which John shrugged and didn't answer. "Well? Watching the morning cartoons?"

The younger Tracy turned around for a moment, and held his father's gaze with a pair of blue eyes that were identical to those of his mother. "There's a hurricane hitting Barbados right now. The weather men weren't expecting it to be so strong, and now the people are trying to get out while there's still time." With that, John turned his head back to the television screen and continued to watch as the action unfolded.

Slightly irritated by the cold reception that he was getting, Jeff walked forward and placed his hands on the back of the coach where John was sitting. "So why are you up? You know that you have school today, right? You don't want to be tired for that."

John's words, when they finally came, were so filled with bitterness that Jeff nearly took a step backwards. "I'm up because I care." He turned once again to his father, and Jeff could clearly see tears rimming the eyes of his twelve-year old. "I guess you wouldn't care if I was up stargazing, but for some reason you do just because I happen to be concerned about something that's not involving me."

The moment was so profound that Jeff found himself without any words for his son.

"You think that I don't care?" Jeff finally asked at length, struggling to keep his own voice calm. "Is that what you're saying?"

"I don't know what you think," replied John, his high boyish voice cracking under the strain. "I do know that you spend hours alone in your room, reading papers and trying to bring mom back to life when she's obviously dead. I know that three times a week you wake me up when you leave the house to go and stare at that awful memorial." John's eyes narrowed slightly, as a touch of anger entered his voice. "I hate that stupid thing."

Jeff almost brought up his hand and hit his son. He could even see in his mind the red mark blossoming across John's slender face. "Don't you ever talk about that place like that."

John was quiet for a long moment, save for a few hiccups that escaped his lips as he desperately tried to keep his tears under control. "I love mom just as much as you do, dad. But she's dead, and death is forever." He pointed a finger behind him at the video screen. "Want to know why I'm up? Because those people are going to die, some of them, and that bothers me."

"Your mother dying bothers me."

"And me!" John retorted quietly, the violence in his voice quickly replaced with pain. "I think about her all the time, dad." He turned his head back to the set and looked down at his hands. "I can't stop thinking about her. I dream about her over and over again. I can feel her grabbing my hand. And then, when I'm about to look at her, when I'm about to see her eyes, I wake up." From where he stood Jeff could easily hear John begin to cry. "I just know that she's not coming back. I wish it didn't have to be like this, but it is, and I can't change that. Not now, not ever."

"I just don't want to loose you too," John continued quietly from the couch. "I'm scared every time you leave the house that you're not going to come back. That you're going to forget about all of us. That you're going to forget about me."

It struck Jeff how mature his son sounded for his age, how, in many ways, he had a better grasp on life than even his older brother Scott did. It was funny how John of all people could manage to make even a simple observation profound. The boy spoke so little to everyone, but he always seemed - of any of the Tracy boys - to truly understand what was going on around him.

And it struck Jeff, right smack in the face, that his son was right.

Lucy was not coming back, it was true; but there were other people, important people, that were still alive.

Without speaking, Jeff walked around to the front of the couch, sat down, and took the weeping John protectively in his arms. In his mind, he let go of the hand of his wife for the last time, and took the tiny hand of his son instead. As if sensing Jeff's change of heart, John wrapped his own arms about his father and hugged him tight.

The two sat silently for many minutes, until Jeff finally found the words to speak. "If I could bring your mother back, I would in a moment."

Nodding, his eyes burnt red with tears, John let his face fall into his father's chest. "I know you would. I wish that you could. I still miss her."

We all do, Jeff thought. You, and Scott and Gordon and Alan and Virgil and I; we'll all miss her for the rest of our lives.

"It's just that . . ." the words of the younger Tracy were left hanging in the air.

"Hmmm?" Jeff whispered, his arms still wrapped about his son.

"Not everyone dies in monorail accidents, dad."

"So you think that my effort to change the hearts of those company executives is futile."

"Maybe a bit," John admitted solemnly. "Because somewhere someone is probably dying from a car accident that's not caused by an executive. They're probably lying in a hospital bed while their family stands around them and watches them die." The boy's eyes, Jeff saw, carried a fleeting and haunted look to them, and he knew what John was thinking about.

"We can try and stop it from happening."

"But you can't save everyone, dad. There are too many people in trouble to save everyone. And who's fault is it in Barbados? No one, really, not even the meteorologists."

Jeff couldn't find anything to say to that either. As much as he wanted to believe that it was possible, as much as he wanted to have Lucy sitting next to him again - though he knew it were impossible and likely his own denial coming to the surface again - it wouldn't happen.

Accidents happened, and there was never any comfort found in them. People died, both because of human failure and by constants beyond their own control. Those who were left alive often found themselves bearing the wounds of death in their own hearts, eating away and killing them from the inside.

"You can try bear it, though," Jeff whispered, his own realizations now coming to the surface. "I think that's what your mom would want; for us to try our hardest, and do what we can even though we can't do everything." He sighed heavily, and gave John a reassuring pat on the back. "I'll throw the documents out tomorrow. They can have their company, they can keep their money. I'm through with them."

"You're giving up then?" John asked, a bit of shock in his voice as if he had not expected Jeff to give in that easily. "Completely? Just like that?"

"No," Jeff assured him, "not completely. I'll find another way, if I can, to make it all right. And we can't save everyone, John. You're right about that. Maybe I couldn't save your mother. But," and he looked John in the eye as he spoke, "I think that I can still save the rest of us, the rest of this family. Think mom would like that?"

John didn't even wait for Jeff to finish his sentence before he nodded and buried his head again in his father's shirt. "Yeah, I think she would."

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**A/N** - I'm sorry that I've kept you guys waiting so long, but midterms are approaching and my homework has been a-calling. ;) Also, a huge thanks has to go out to Ariel - she beta reads stuff that many people I know refuse to, and she does a wonderful job of it! Thank you so much!

Anyways, though, something's been nagging at the back of my mind and I really feel that I should mention it. When I was writing The Winds of Advent, it seemed as though Lucy was speaking to me from somewhere. Normally my muse is active, but I can't explain why this scene happened the way it did - I have a really good guess, though. When I was 8 years old, I was stuck in the hospital for a month with a life-threatening illness. I was in a lot of pain, dopped up on medication, and subsequently didn't sleep much. I can honestly say, thinking back on that time, that I owe my life and sanity to two things - Thunderbirds and Power Rangers, which I watched incessently over and over again during my stay there. It kept me going when nothing else could. Coincidence? Maybe I have more in common with Lucy than I previously thought. ;)

**Lilo Hawkins -** I guess we're even, because every morning your stories never fail to make me laugh. ;) I don't think I've ever cackled so hard in my life as I did reading chapter four of your latest offering. They are so BAD, Gordon and Virgil. ;D

**Kazza -** Thanks, I'll have to check out some of your HP stuff in my spare time!

**Leap of Fate -** Annonymous reviews are finally turned on, lol. Thanks for pointing that out. ;) It's interesting, but the scene turned out very different from what I originally planned. The Christmas thing came out of nowhere, but it offered such wonderful imagery that I really couldn't cut it out. I just had this mental image of a ten year old Virgil playing (somewhat poorly) Christmas Carols for his mom, and it wouldn't leave my head alone.

**Ariel - **What can I even say? Everyone else, take note of the following - Ariel is the most dedicated and wonderful beta reader that a fanfic writer or professional author could ever wish for. I know this was hard for you to read, and your opinion means that much more to me because of that. Thanks, my friend. :)

**Fran Lavery & Arashi no Baka -** I'm not sure whether I should be happy or not that I've put everyone (including poor Lucy) through such misery. ;) Thanks for the kind words, and hopefully I won't disappoint.


	3. Homework

_I just want to say thank you, to all of the people that reviewed, for putting up with such a long wait for the next instalment. I am however, pleased to announce that I almost have the entire story finished. First, though, before it continues, I need to clear a few things up._

_marblez brought to my attention that I haven't really specified whether this story is tv-verse or movie-verse. To clear that up, I'll say that it's both. I'm an avid fan of the tv series, but I also can see good things in the movie that allow Thunderbirds to move forward into our version (not the sixties version) of the twenty-first century. So, here are the things that you will notice right away:_

_1. The chapter The Winds of Advent takes place in December of 2010. A Hurricane in Barbados takes place in April of 2011. I have heard that the movie takes place in both 2010 and 2020, but based on the technology demonstrated in it, I'd like to think that it's in 2020. We could be pushing it to have a monorail up in London by 2010. If anyone would like to think of it as happening in either 2010, or the tv-verse 2065, that's fine with me, though I think that commercial airlines will be flying on something like ramjets by 2065. The rest of the entries will be dated from now on, so it'll be easier to follow._

_2. The age difference between the boys is the same as in the movie. In chapter The Winds of Advent, the ages are approximately (I haven't worked it quite down to the months) as follows: Scott is 14, John is 12, Virgil is 10, Gordon is 8 and Alan is 4. I have, however, kept most other things consistent with the show, which you'll see as the story progresses._

_3. There are other little subtle things that I've done, simply to keep the story consistent with the more modern take that I prefer. In the end, however, what I want to do is show the Tracy boys in a light that will make the movie seem more plausible. The age/date differences aside, I think you could view this either as a movie or a tv story. The Tracys are still the Tracys. I won't say anymore – you'll have to wait and see. I do, however, promise that you'll see the boys after the next three chapters. Jeff will pretty much be put to the side for most of the rest of the fic._

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DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights toThunderbirds,or any characters or settings that may be recognizable therein. I'm just a poor college student, so please don't sue.

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_**Homework**_

_**September 2012**_

Development was progressing well on a new product at Tracy Industries. The work crew was just putting the finishing touches on the prototype model of a new stratosphere launch craft, but already the engineering staff was hovering around their latest creation. The white coated men and women glanced approvingly at the silver paint that covered the exterior, then turned most of their attention to the data that was flashing on their hand-held research monitors.

Jeff Tracy watched the entire process from a scaffold high above the work floor. The whole production floor was visible from the office tower, and it gave him a bit of enjoyment to see his products coming together under the hands of capable engineers. It had been a long time since he had truly touched any tools, though the desire to create something new was still burning deep inside of him.

Just as it had been so strongly yesterday morning, when a very odd idea had jumped into his mind and had subsequently refused to go away.

The previous morning for Jeff Tracy had been the product of two very different things. First, he had taken his three youngest sons, Gordon, Virgil and Alan, and had dropped them off at school.

He had watched them from the driver's seat of the family sports car as they had run past the fence of the institute and onto its green grounds. Virgil and Gordon, both a few years into school, had immediately found their friends near the large play apparatus. Alan, however, had hung back for a long while until Jeff finally got out of the vehicle, took him by the hand, and led him into the playground.

Though Alan had, at that point, already been to school for one year, he was still unsure of himself. Jeff almost smiled at the thought, when he considered how Alan behaved at home. He didn't worry about it much. The previous year it had taken Alan a week to adjust, and then he had been a little heathen that had terrorised the school.

The slamming of a steel winch against the factory wall shook Jeff from his reverie. He quickly checked his watch, then convinced himself that he had plenty of time before he had to be at his meeting.

Thoughts of the previous day came drifting back into his mind. Boys will be boys, Jeff thought with a wry smile, smacking a stack of papers that he carried with him against the long metal railing that separated him from the surrounding bay. He had a good feeling that Alan's second day would go better, and that he would soon have his chipper young son back from wherever he had gone to.

He couldn't hold the thought back though, and Jeff wondered if perhaps Alan was scared to leave his father for a very logical reason.

"I'm not going anywhere," he muttered out loud, though the words were lost to the constant noise of whirring machinery. "Don't worry about it, Alan. Daddy's not leaving just yet."

Oddly enough, it had not been Alan that had - the previous day - turned his mind to an even greater issue. It had been a group of children, not friends of his son, but other students of the swank private school playing in a nearby grove of trees, that had given him the idea.

The kids had been running in and out of the trees, chasing each other down whist using skipping ropes like lassos. The game had been entertaining to watch, and Jeff had parked his car near the playground so that he could watch the kids. Eventually they had tired of tag, and they convened in a small group so that Jeff couldn't see what they were doing.

What they did finally do didn't register with Jeff as being anything truly profound. At least at first it didn't.

The kids had picked one kid from the main group and had sent him off behind a tree. Then, without warning, he had sprinted up the tree and had climbed to the very highest limbs. What the original intent of the game was, Jeff had no idea.

The boy had raised a fist in excitement, then, his balance thrown off, had tumbled. His foot had caught in between the tree limbs, and he had been left hanging from his ankle, suspended over ten feet in the air.

The part of Jeff that was a father had panicked, but the part of him that was also a young boy had watched curiously as the kids - still treating it all like a game - ran off to somewhere behind the school. They had returned promptly with a set of rope and a piece of wood that had been a few feet long and a foot across.

One boy, the tallest of the bunch, had tied the rope to the wood and tossed the entire piece over the top of the branch. He then had sat down on the wood, waved his hand, and grinned mischievously as the other kids had hoisted him up with the other end of the rope.

_What is this school coming to?_ Jeff Tracy the father had asked.

_What a great idea!_ Jeff Tracy the kid had shouted. Jeff Tracy, who had once been a young boy himself, living on a corn farm, and who had also done many stupid and dangerous things in his life, could understand where the kids were coming from.

That idea, Jeff had thought in wonderment, shaking his head in amusement at the entire concept, had been crazy. That older boy had been able to get high enough to pull the other kid down without hurting him. And they had pulled it off too, with stuff that was just beside the school in a utility bin.

Stuff, the right stuff, that had been available, that had been handy, that had been there when it had been needed.

Somehow the kids had averted a disaster because the _stuff_ had been right there for them. Of course, Jeff had thought in retrospect, they probably could have avoided it in the first place. But kids didn't think about things like that - they just let events happen and unfold on their own.

And it had been at that moment when his own idea had ran into him rather abruptly.

It had been nearly two years since Lucy had died, and since then something had still been eating at the back of his mind. Though he had given up trying to change the face of a corporate world that didn't want to change, he couldn't accept that fate couldn't be reckoned with.

Over that period, he had in his free time worked out exactly what could have been done to save the life of his wife _after_ the accident had taken place. A big clamp and steel rope, thrown over a beam or something similar, would have done the trick. When the train had jumped there had been a few minutes where it had rocked precariously on the edge of the rail, where someone could have tried to save the passengers –

A few minutes where a rescue could have been attempted.

Except, Jeff thought with a sad smile, that there had been no one with the right equipment in that area of the city. There were clamps and steel cables everywhere, of course, but in no good place to be taken out and used on a moments notice.

The elder Tracy took a deep breath, and glanced down at the papers that he held. They were mostly blank, save for a few lines of text situated near the top margin.

_A rope or a steel cable, _he thought,_ ia board or a metal clamp. It's all the same._

The image of the kids playing flashed through his mind again, though it was the box at the side of the school that stood out the most. It was the box where the ropes had been held, waiting to be used for something.

_The stuff was there for the kids - it wasn't for me. But it could be._

"It could be possible," Jeff said, his voice subdued. "We can't save everybody, Lucy, but we can sure try. I guess that I had it wrong before." His hands trembled and Jeff worried that he might drop the assignment sheets. "I can't change people; humans just don't work that way. But maybe," he sighed and then continued, "maybe there is something else that I can do."

With a determined glance down at the main floor, Jeff Tracy turned around and headed for the elevator. It was time to take a chance on a crazy idea, and hope that what he was mistaking for insanity was perhaps a small glimmer of brilliance instead.

* * *

One by one, the engineers employed by Tracy Industries discovered the slip of paper that was carefully inserted into their mail-box.

One by one, they read the puzzling assignment, labelled humorously by Jeff as 'homework', and set to work on the task that had been set before them.

It was a test, Jeff claimed on the paper, to see how well they could reason through obscure ideas. It was to test their creativity, their knowledge of technology, and - most of all - their ability to do what some might consider crazy.

They had one week, and then the papers had to come back.

One by one, the sheets were returned to the small silver inbox at the end of the management hallway. And all of them, save for one crumpled sheet at the very top that had been thrown in at the very last minute, were mostly blank and unfinished.

It was the wrinkled and coffee splashed sheet that Jeff took delicately in his fingers, glancing briefly at the chicken scratch writing that was mixed with food and who knew what else. He laid it out with great care on his desk, using paper-weights to hold out the curling edges. He sat down on his chair, reached for his coffee, and began to read what he soon realized was the work of a genius.

At the top of the sheet lay a single scenario, written out in purposefully scant detail so as not to give the engineers too many hints:

_'There has been a train accident in the mountains. The engine and carriages have come off of the tracks, and an ensuing rockslide has blocked all passage up the main mountain roads. The back carriage is hanging dangerously close to the edge, and in thirty-minutes time it will fall from the cliff, killing all aboard.'_

And then, Jeff thought, the line that likely sent most of his workers scrambling for an expresso:

_'Using any available technology that you can think of, how would you save these people?'_

Most of his engineers had at least attempted the problem.

One had gone into detail about how the rock could be cleared with dynamite, only to later say that the entire process would likely take too long and would likely send tremors through the mountain that would make the carriage tumble anyway.

Another had said how an all-terrain vehicle could be used to traverse the path up to the train, but that somehow the vehicle would have to be carted up to the mountain in the first place.

An impossible scenario, Jeff thought, unless you are willing to think beyond the normal and into the realm of the obscure. He unconsciously reached for the paper with his right hand, and lifted it out from under the weights so that he could hold it closer to his face.

'_There are several methods by which the train could be reached'_ the crumbled paper began _'including dynamite and ATV transport. However, there is a key problem in this scenario: the needed supplies and equipment are not available in an area close to the crash site. Most army transports capable of ferrying the necessary supplies can't move fast enough to reach the mountain in the allocated time - and any plane capable of mach speeds in excess of the distance/time allowed do not have the capabilities to land on or near the mountain.'_

The next paragraph nearly split Jeff's face in half with a grin.

_'A new and better aircraft could be built that could fly at high speeds in the upper atmosphere, have VTOL capabilities, and a large enough equipment bay to carry the needed supplies. This would require extensive work, but it is entirely possible. This plane would not prevent this disaster, but, if kept on hand, could possibly hinder further accidents in the future. And - possibly - if the plane were already prepared and ready somehow, this entire tragedy could be avoided.'_

There it was. The answer that Jeff was looking for.

He let the top of the paper fall gently to his desk, his mind still swimming with the possibilities. There was no doubt that many of his men and women were on the right track with their ideas. They had the method and the means, but they were neglecting to look beyond the obviously tried and tested forms of transport.

They were trying to be practical when he didn't want them to be.

In the corporate world there was no need to have high performance aircraft carting around large stores of goods. It would be expensive, and for the time saved during transportation - a few hours at the most - it would never be worth it. The technology to create new and incredible aircraft was there, but it just was not needed by the government, or the corporate society.

If one looked at the problem in terms of money and profit, it was a futile venture. VTOL craft existed, for sure, but not of the size and scope that the engineer had so bluntly suggested. There were no specs for such a craft, no pre-designed flight circuits, no integrated systems - not to mention no fuel source for something of that size and speed! The entire project would have to be started from scratch.

But, Jeff insisted quietly to himself, I am not in this for profit. I'm not in this for practicality, or for long term commercial use. _I'm in this to save the lives of those fictional people on that fictional train._

He had the time, and he surely had the money. But, most of all, he had the motivation - and it was obvious, from the lovingly crafted work that lay before him that another man also shared a similar vision. The page of equations and diagrams beneath the written essay showed that quite plainly.

Without a second thought, Jeff Tracy picked up the receiver of his phone, checked the number listed on the corner of the paper, and dialled. It was time to get started.

* * *

That's it for now! I'll have two more shorter chapters up within a few days. :D

R&R, please! I love hearing your thoughts.


	4. James' Project

_Disclaimer: I do not own Thunderbirds, and do not intend to make any profit from this story. It is for entertainment purposes only_

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_Time for the next chapter! I don't have any author notes really this time, except to say that you might be surprised by the name of a character soon to be revealed. I'll say this - Brain's name never actually was Hiram Hackenbacker. It was simply an alias given to him by Jeff._

_**kazaa - **I know your reviews haven't popped up yet, but I got them over e-mail. I'm glad you like the idea of how Brains was chosen. It's also something that really bugged me, so I wanted to set it straight in my story._

_**andrewjameswilliams** - (did I spell that right? ;) ) Glad to hear that I'm not alone. I'm such a science geek that I couldn't bring myself to set the story at a time when the technology just wouldn't exist. As a side note, I just wrote the chapter with the first rescue, and I had a great time with all of the techni-garble in it. :) I'll have to head over and read your story, but that could take a while. lol_

_Enjoy! rubs hands One more chapter after this, and the boys will finally reappear._

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_**James' Project**_

_**September 2012**_

"M-m-m-m-mister Tracy, sir, I have your p-p-p-papers ready for you w-w-w-whenever you want them."

Jeff Tracy, in all of his forty-one years of life, had never seen anyone look so terrified as the man standing before him did at that moment.

The younger man, who couldn't have been more than thirty, reached a hand up to brush his chestnut hair back from his eyes, only to accidentally knock his glasses askew on his face.

"Well, bring them here then," replied Jeff coolly, trying to maintain a professional attitude. It was difficult, to be sure, considering how excited he felt on the inside. "Really, James, I won't fire you for walking on my carpet."

James Wilson nodded nervously, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his throat, and walked forward until he stood in front of his boss' desk. Carefully, so as not to bend any pages, he placed a one-inch thick booklet in front of Jeff.

"I-I-I-I hope this is to your liking, m-m-m-m-mister Tracy."

To be polite and to spare the man some of his sanity, Jeff quickly picked the book up and flipped through the first few pages. Detailed diagrams and half-page long equations flashed in front of him, reassuring the older man that he had not guessed wrong.

"This looks like excellent work, James."

Nodding ever so slightly, James turned a mild shade of red and glanced down at his feet. "T-t-t-thank you, sir."

That stutter! Jeff thought in amazement, wondering how on Earth a man that spoke that way could be so articulate in his writing. But he knew enough to know that appearances could be deceiving.

"Excellent work," he echoed, setting the report down in front of him. "Tell me, what would you think about working on a little project for me?"

"P-p-p-p-project?" James stuttered, looking up suddenly. "But you haven't finished reading the report!"

Jeff eyed the brown haired engineer thoughtfully, then shook his head. "No, I haven't. But I don't feel that I need to." When James didn't respond, Jeff sighed and reached a hand over to open a drawer in his desk.

"I won't be holding you liable for anything if you can't deliver what I'm looking for. In fact," Jeff laid out a long legal sized paper before him, "this is a legal and official contract stating just that. You can take it, read it, have it analysed, or burn it if you even want. But," he looked James in the eyes, "I would much rather have you sign it."

It was as if no one had ever taken the time to make the engineer such an offer, Jeff noted in wonderment. And, given the way that the man presented himself - with messy hair and a coffee stained lab coat - there was likely a good reason why.

But equations and words did not lie.

"No expectations, no liability," repeated Jeff honestly, trying to put as much compassion into his voice as possible. "Just some work, some draw-ups of the final project, and a basic ball-park figure for the cost of the venture."

"N-n-n-n-no expectations then," James finally spit out, his eyes beginning to show a spark of interest, "just this project?"

"Just this project." Jeff held the contract in the air. "No expectations. Same pay, same time frame as your current project. Six months, and then you turn into me what you have done."

James eyes went foggy for a brief moment, as if some greater part of his mind were at work. He finally nodded and took the paper carefully from Jeff's hands.

"I won't let you d-d-d-d-d-d-" he began, but he stopped when he saw Jeff's knowing nod.

"I know that you won't. Oh," Jeff said suddenly, his face immediately intense. "One last thing."

"Yes?"

"Don't tell anyone about this." There was no doubting the seriousness in the older man's voice. "Anyone."

* * *

A/N - I was going to have Jeff say 'No strings attached', then I thought about it and realized how funny that would sound. ;) Sorry about this one being so short, btw. 


	5. A Dream Realized

_Hey, all! Sorry about the shortness of these last two entries, but they pretty much mark the end of . . . the short entries. ;) And I figured out where my lost reviews went! FFN stuck the reviews at the bottom of the page. :P Don't know why . . . So, thanks Marblez and Kazaa, I found them. :)_

_Marblez, have to agree with you, but I'll take Scott if you don't want him. ;P_

_Thanks toeveryone who has reviewed so far! I really appreciate the feedback, it gives me the inspiration to start editing the next 40,000 or so words of this story. :) Enjoy! Once again, sorry 'bout the shortness._

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**DISCLAIMER: I do not own, and do not claim to own, the rights to Thunderbirds. This piece is for entertainment purposes only, and is not meant to make profit. Please don't sue, I'm in college and have no money.

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**A Dream Realized**

**April 2013**

Six months after he had been issued the project, ten minutes from the exact deadline date to be precise, James Wilson returned to Jeff Tracy's office with a large metal box. He carried the object protectively in his arms, and stumbled the entire way down the management hallway much to the amusement of the senior staff.

Jeff was waiting at the door of his headquarters, holding the wooden oak piece open so that James could stumble in and slam the container down on the mahogany desk.

Brushing his hands off in a clumsy manner, James turned and grinned sheepishly at his employer. "S-s-s-s-s-sorry about the mess, sir. It's been sitting in my office for months n-n-n-n-n-now."

"That's quite all right," Jeff assured the stuttering engineer, taking the man's arm and guiding him over to a plush chair beside the desk. "Now, sit, and show me what you have."

James nodded, and silently keyed in a password into the keyboard input on the box. The lid opened with a hiss as the inside once again regained room pressure.

"Ah." Jeff's eyes lit up as James withdrew several large booklets. Each one was colour coded, and was labelled simply as either one, two, three, four, or five. There was no other identification on any of the packages at all.

"I think we can manage with f-f-f-f-five in all," James began, his eyes immediately clouding with worry. "I hope that's all right . . ."

"It's fine," Jeff interrupted, trying to keep the man calm in order to stay his stutter a bit. "Whatever you think works will work."

During the six-month period of the project, Jeff had spent a fair amount of time having coffee with James in an attempt to get to know him better. He had quickly discovered that his engineer was a very gifted individual - as long as he could manage to keep his cool and finish his sentences. Whenever he felt nervous or threatened James had a habit of degrading into a horrible repetitive drone.

"No expectations," Jeff said humorously, the phrase that had become James' mantra while he had worked on the project. "Remember?"

James met Jeff eye to eye, then slowly nodded. "Of course."

"So." The older man folded his hands in front of him and settled in for what he knew would be a very long time. "Proceed."

* * *

Five hours later found Jeff Tracy standing in awe, his eyes locked on a set of diagrams that he had tacked to the message board in his office. Each page was scrawled with symbols and graphs, but his attention was on the carefully crafted picture in the centre of each page. 

"Five ships," he muttered under his breath, excitement building in him with every word. "Five wonderful beautiful ships."

And they were wonderful, just as he had expected them to be.

James had been brief with his overall summary, simply stating that he had come up with a few answers to Jeff's proposed problem. He had then taken several hours out to go into each component in detail, outlining its purpose and its general functionality.

Each ship fulfilled a vital part of the whole, bringing its own unique design to bear against an infinite range of missions. It had all seemed surreal, and through the entire talk Jeff had trouble keeping his mind from daydreaming up obscure situations for the virtual ships to resolve.

But when at the end of the session James had folded back the folders' cover to reveal a simple coloured sketch of each craft, Jeff truly had become excited; the ships were real, not a figment of his imagination any longer. Though they were different from what he had always pictured them to be, he knew that - being crafted from James Wilson's mind - they would work.

And they would work brilliantly.

"Mission is a go," Jeff whispered, his mind turning back to the days that he had spent as a NASA astronaut. "We are good to go."

His fingers absently traced the outline of the first ship, a sleek ramjet powered craft that James claimed would be able to travel anywhere in the world in under an hour. Someday this ship will fly, Jeff thought with a small smile.  
Someday they all will.


	6. Boy's Talk

A/N: Wow, I never dreamt that I would get so many reviews for the last chapter! **swoons** Thank you so much, everyone, for reviewing. It means a great deal to me when I can hear back from my readers. :)

Just bear with me for the next chapter. It was the first one in the story that I wrote with the boys (excepting John), and I've re-written it at least five times since I first did it. I'm still not entirely happy with it, but I can't really remove it because it ties into some of the later scenes. **sigh** I can't have everything, I guess. So if the characterization doesn't quite seem right, I'm sorry. Maybe it's better now, but I've read it so many times that I can't tell anymore. lol

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_DISCLAIMER: Same thing, I don't own the rights to Thunderbirds, and I don't plan on making any money from this. It's just for entertainment purposes, and to keep me from doing my computer homework that's due next week!_

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**Boy's Talk**

**June 2015**

"You can be really stupid sometimes," Gordon Tracy drawled, his body lying prone across a wooden poster bed. "Did anyone ever tell you that?" The thirteen-year-olds chest heaved up and down in a silent laugh, and his ginger red hair fell onto his face so that it obscured his eyes and the freckles that dotted his cheekbones.

A snort came drifting into the bedroom, and Gordon could distinctly hear the sound of splashing water.

"Shut up," sighed Virgil Tracy from the washroom, his normally passive face creased into an expression of irritation as he gazed into the mirror. "I didn't do it to myself. And," he muttered as an afterthought, "I'm not stupid."

"Just a guy who doesn't have a girl friend anymore," Gordon responded lightly, his eyes dancing mischievously. From where he lay, he could just make out Virgil's form standing in front of the washroom sink.

"Not funny, Gordon." Dipping a wash cloth into the sink, Virgil gingerly wiped a thick layer of lipstick from his upper forehead. "You have no idea what happened."

"I was there, Virg. I was walking home with you, remember? She marked you good with that lipstick."

"That isn't the entire story," huffed Virgil, "Heather and I had another talk, after, when you were walking ahead with Alan. I was a polite gentleman."

"You mean you didn't call her fat?"

"I did not call her fat!" Virgil gasped, poking his head out of the washroom long enough to glare at Gordon. "She wanted to know how she looked in the skirt. I told her that I liked the other one better. It was an honest response, I don't know what she was mad about."

Gordon gave a sympathetic sigh, and waved a hand nonchalantly in the air. "Virgil, do you ever listen to dad when he talks? Don't talk about clothes with girls, he says. It's dangerous to your health."

"Oh, like you know. I haven't seen a girl draped over your arm."

"I listen to dad. He knows."

"No he doesn't. Dad doesn't understand this stuff," the older boy grumbled, finally sighing in relief as the lipstick came off his face. "He's really useless when it comes to talking about girls. He just looks embarrassed whenever I ask, and then he tries to come up with some weird advice so that he doesn't look stupid."

Tossing a red lock from his eyes, Gordon fell silent for a long moment. "Betcha mom wouldn't have been like that."

"Oh." Virgil's face fell like a rock, and any anger that was left in his eyes disappeared when he saw how quiet the normally exuberant Gordon had become. "Gordon, I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

"I know you didn't," Gordon sighed, "but it's true, isn't it?" He pushed himself to a sitting position, and met Virgil's softening glare. "When we were little, we would all go ask dad about something, and then we'd end up crawling on mom's lap when we didn't like what he told us. It always happened that way. I wish it could happen now."

Making his way over to the bed, Virgil let the washcloth drop from his hand so that he could wrap his arm around his brother's shoulders. "I'm sorry," he repeated softly, "I didn't mean to trash dad. I'm just frustrated."

"It's still true, though," Gordon insisted, "we always harassed mom for help when we couldn't talk to dad."

Virgil thought for a long moment, then grinned slowly as a thought came to his mind. "Hey, that's right, Gord. Remember the time that John mooched all of the candy from the pantry, and he felt so guilty about it that he had to tell someone?"

"He told mom," Gordon responded immediately, "and then she laughed, punched him on the arm, and told him not to do it again. He was so scared that he'd be grounded, and he was so happy when she just punched him." A laugh escaped his mouth, and he playfully punched Virgil with his fist.

"Hey, what was that for?"

"Mom always said that love hurt," Gordon snorted, his face becoming distant. "Guess she was right. Sometimes I really miss her, Virgil. I don't even remember her as much anymore. I probably should."

"It's not your fault," Virgil explained softly, "you weren't that old. Heck, you were only eight. I was ten. I should be the one that feels bad, because I can't remember what her voice sounded like."

"Really?"

"Yeah." The words hung in the air until it seemed as though an eternity had passed. "I just tried so hard to survive when she died, to get through it all. I pushed her away, I tried not to think about her, and in the end I guess I did make it. But I lost mom in the process. I got rid of the pain, or most of it, and I got rid of her too."

"She was already gone," Gordon observed, his voice rasping slightly, as it had done a few months ago when he had gone through puberty. "Remember? We couldn't do anything about it."

"I know." The brown haired Tracy reached up a hand to rub the moisture from his eyes. "I know, I know."

"You weren't the only one that did that." Gordon continued. "I think we all did. Everyone dealt with it differently - look at what happened to dad! It was like he was dead for months afterwards." Sighing, he cast a forlorn glance at the empty bed that rested on the floor beside him. "And Scott was always there for us. He didn't want help. He helped everyone else instead, but he was still upset, I think."

"I know he was," Virgil responded, "he used to lay awake at night, staring up at the ceiling. I would sit up too, watching with him just to make sure that he was okay. It really bothered me."

"I didn't know that," Gordon said after a while. "He never told me that."

"He didn't want anyone to know. I think it embarrassed him to think that people knew he was upset."

"I miss Scott," muttered Gordon, "It just hasn't been the same since he left."

"He'll be back, Gord, as soon as summer comes around. They'll give him a quick break for the holidays, and we can hang out like we always did." Virgil smiled, and turned to stare out the bedroom window. "Wonder if he's flying right now."

"He can have it for all I care," Gordon said immediately, his face indignant. "I'd rather be swimming."

A snort escaped Virgil's mouth, and he affectionately ruffled his brother's hair. "You're a fish, Gordon. A real guppy."

Gordon laughed, punched his brother again, and then fell quiet against Virgil's shoulder. The two sat silent for several moments, Virgil's arms still about his brother, until Gordon finally rolled his eyes and let out a quiet yet resonating chuckle.

"Maybe she'll phone you back."

"No she won't." Virgil's tone was quite final. "It wasn't going anywhere, Gord. We had differences, probably one too many, and things just weren't working out. I'd almost feel better if she didn't phone."

Gordon rolled his eyes. "But you're always talking about how much you like her! Don't you want it to work out?"

Before Virgil could respond, the sound of a slamming door echoed into the bedroom. From their place on the bed, the two brothers could hear the sound of a bag being dropped on the hardwood floor of the main hallway.

"Sounds like John's home," Gordon observed. He jumped up from the bed, and quickly walked to the door of the bedroom. "Guess we'd better look like we're doing something other than sitting around and chatting." His eyes crinkled for a moment, as if he were trying to remember something. "Isn't there something-"

His eyes suddenly wide, Virgil sprinted past Gordon, his long strides taking him through the door in a heartbeat. "Geeze, we forgot about Alan!"

* * *

John Tracy walked into the kitchen, took one look around, and dropped the rest of his bags on the spot. He just couldn't believe what he was seeing; it was as though a tornado had gone through the entire room and pulled out every drawer and appliance that could possibly be moved from its spot. 

A tornado called Alan, John immediately observed, finally seeing the youngest Tracy standing by the counter, a bag of sugar in his arms. Alan's face was covered in what appeared to be flour, and various measuring utensils were scattered around him on the linoleum floor.

Unable to find words to express his shock, John simply walked forward and helped Alan to push the sugar onto the counter. The two brothers stared at each other for a long moment, until the blond haired nine-year old blinked at the blond haired sixteen-year old and gave an appropriately sheepish grin.

"I have homework," Alan finally muttered, glancing at the mess around him.

"Uh huh. And this is it?"

"Yeah!" Alan said enthusiastically, he head bobbing up and down. "She wants us to make cookies! Isn't that cool?"

Slightly suspicious, John gave Alan a knowing look and then turned to gaze out at the disaster zone. "And she probably wanted an adult to help you. You seem really happy about this whole thing. That's really odd, Alan, because I've never thought of you as the cooking type." His eyebrow arched up in amusement. "But I suppose if you can make a mess in the process . . ."

Alan laughed again, and nervously poked a finger at the bag of sugar. "I didn't spill that much."

"No," John muttered, dragging his own finger through a film of dust on the counter, "not too bad. I've seen worse. Speaking of which-" He turned around suddenly, just in time to catch a glimpse of two figures sprinting from the doorway. "Why didn't you ask Gordon and Virgil for help?"

The younger boy's face crinkled slightly, and he shrugged. "Gord was busy with something. Besides, I didn't want help. I told him that."

"Really." When I catch those two, John thought with a touch of anger, they are really going to think twice about goofing off when they're supposed to be watching their brother. "Well, what were they doing?"

Reaching for the sugar, Alan didn't turn around to face his brother. "Talking. Virgil had a fight with his girlfriend."

There could not have been a worse thing to say at that moment to John Tracy - he had just spent four hours of his life tutoring a freshman when he should have been at home watching his younger brother, taking care of his family like he was expected to.

Four hours spent with a girl that - for all John could tell - was only interested in the cumulative volume of a guys' hair and the exact hue and intensity of his eyes. It hadn't been frustrating, no –

It had been a nightmare that he had willingly subjected himself in order to get that one extra bit of distinction for his graduation. It had been a complete waste of his time, a useless exercise of his patience, when he could have instead been home showing Alan how to bake cookies.

How hard was he trying, while Scott was off flying across the mountains, and his dad was at work until the god-awful hours of the night? How hard was he trying, while Gordon and Virgil went around acting like nothing was wrong, like there was nothing for them to do at home to help out?

John shook his head, trying to suppress the horrible feeling of rage that was building in him; it was a useless effort.

"Virgil!" The words exploded from John's mouth. "Gordon! Get your butts in here right now!"

His eyes beginning to water, Alan carefully pushed the bag of sugar onto the counter so that it wouldn't fall over. Then quietly, very quietly, he turned and fled the room as fast as he could.

"Alan!" John gasped, watching as the boyish figure darted past him and out the door. "Alan, get back here!"

"No! Not until you stop yelling!" Alan's voice drifted into the room from a distance, and John guessed that he was probably already hunched over his Lego sculpture on the floor in the entertainment room.

Not until you stop yelling . . . the words echoed around in John's head, and by the time that Gordon and Virgil sheepishly stepped into the room he was past being angry. Alan's words had awakened him to an obvious and horrible reality.

He was tired, exhausted, and ready to give up.

"I just yelled at my little brother," the blond-haired teenager moaned, drawing curious looks from both of his siblings.

"Was he being a dork?" Gordon asked honestly. "If he was, then you can yell at him. It's the only way that he listens to anyone."

"Because you ignore him!" John snapped back quietly, the bite in his voice making up for its lack of volume. "He doesn't listen because no one ever listens to him. Maybe if you took the time out to help him . . ."

"But he didn't want help!" Virgil argued as he reached out a hand to lean on the doorjamb. "We asked him, and he said that he was fine. And then Gordon said that we were busy, but we'd be in the house if he needed us."

A profound sigh escaped John's lips, and he closed his eyes and tried as hard as he could to make everything else go away in his mind. "You don't get it, do you?"

Exchanging confused glances, Virgil and Gordon shrugged. "Get what?"

"That we're supposed to be a family! We're supposed to help each other! And what do you do? You screw around with girls and act like nothing's wrong!" John suppressed the desire to punch out his brothers then and there.

"I do not screw around with girls!" Virgil burst out immediately, his eyes wide. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"And why are you blaming us?" Gordon continued, his face colouring to nearly match the shade of his hair. "We're not dad's age, John! And I don't see you running around playing trucks and planes with Alan either!"

Those final few words did it. Without even realising what he was doing, John lunged forward and slammed Gordon down into the ground.

"You little asshole," he growled, his entire body shaking with rage, "don't you ever notice anything else but your own stupid life, and your stupid school, and your stupid friends?" He let Gordon go immediately, pulling his hands back as if they were poisoned, then fell forward onto his knees as his strength left him.

"John." Virgil had knelt down beside the two, shock evident on his face, and had taken John's shoulders in his hands. "John, if there's something wrong you can tell us. Seriously, we would help you, but we need to know if you need help. We can't just guess and hope that we guess right - you need to talk to us."

John didn't have the stamina left to explain that he generally talked to Scott when he was upset. It was Scott that generally fixed things for him, because he was the eldest, and Scott was now flying around in an F-15 somewhere and probably didn't have a care in the world. John didn't have the heart to tell Virgil that he couldn't talk to him, that he couldn't bring himself to dump his problems on his brothers when their own lives were going so smoothly.

He couldn't bring himself to be the horrible older brother that always yelled and told people what to do because he was stressed out himself. Yet, for whatever cruel reason of fate, he was becoming just that. He was expecting Gordon and Virgil to pick up the pieces that were falling from his own poor attempt at trying to forge a career of his own.

"We didn't know," apologised Gordon quietly, a red patch blooming on his neck where John's hands had been wrapped about the skin. "Honestly, John, we thought you were all right."

"Don't do so much if it's making you stressed out," Virgil suggested, his voice shaking slightly. "Honestly, John, don't do this."

Blinking hard, John shook his head and tried to keep the tears at bay. "And let God knows what happen to everyone else? Who is going to hold everything together?"

"We can," Gordon replied, his voice even quieter. There was no humour left in the tone.

"Yeah, and then who looks after you? Dad, when he's never home to help out?"

Gordon and Virgil both traded worried looks, then shrugged. "I didn't think of that," Virgil muttered softly. "I'm just used to someone being around all the time."

"And now that Scott's gone," Gordon continued, "someone has to look out for us."

"Yeah." John's voice sounded tired and weary. "Yeah, that's about it."

The three sat silently on the ground, glancing at each other until no one could find something to say to break the silence. Finally, when it looked as though no words would suffice, Virgil and Gordon reached over and wrapped their brother in a warm embrace.

"You are such a dork," Gordon finally decided, the words sending a subdued bit of laughter from Virgil's mouth. "You think that you can be dad, Scott, a high school student, and a college student all rolled into one. None of us would be stupid enough to do that."

John nodded slowly and closed his eyes in relief. He didn't want to throw the problem on someone else, yet he didn't have any choice in the matter. "You don't have to do much, Gordon. I'm not expecting a miracle - I just wish that you would do your own washing and not expect me to make supper on nights that I can't even get home on time."

Virgil snickered, and gave Gordon a superior look. "I do my wash. Guess who doesn't?"

"Oh shut up."

Watching from the doorway, Alan Tracy decided that his brother was sufficiently calm enough to approach. He traversed the width of the kitchen silently, his sock-covered toes making no noise on the hardwood floor.

John was startled at first when Alan sat beside him and threw his head - mop hair and all - against his shoulder. More than anything, though, John was relieved that Alan had come back to the room at all.

"You had me worried there," he whispered, rubbing Alan's head affectionately and mussing up the boy's hair. "I thought I'd scared you away for good."

"Nah," Alan grinned, "it was kind of funny. I heard you call Gordon the A word - you never say that."

Gordon snorted and gave John an amused grin. "Yeah, what happened there? I might have to tell dad about that."

"You wouldn't," John sighed immediately, "because then I'd tell him about Alan and the cooking mess and you'd never leave this house again until your thirtieth birthday."

Though John's tone was teasing, the words were not. Gordon and Virgil didn't miss the hint.

"Time to grow up, I guess." Gordon laughed hollowly. "Well Virg, it was nice while it lasted." His lip curled upward in a mildly malicious grin. "At least you got to kiss a girl, though. That'll never happen to me now."

Red began to seep onto Virgil's cheeks, and he quickly turned to John and began to change the topic. "Guess we'll clean up." Virgil stood up, and glanced around the kitchen. "Holy cow, Alan, did you pull out everything?"

The silence afterwards was only interrupted when Gordon couldn't hold in his laughter any longer. Soon, all of the Tracy boys were laughing, and no one could say that the sound was not healthy. It had been a long time since they had all shared a good laugh, and even Virgil found himself chuckling at his own expense.

Finally, John wiped the mirth from his eyes and pointed at the counter. "Now, let's get those cookies done so that I can go study."

"You go study now," Virgil replied insistently, taking John by the back of the shirt and pushing him towards the doorway. "When I'm taking college classes during high school, I'll take the time out to study. But right now you need to work and pass both of those stupid programs so that you can quit having stress attacks. I think we'll get along just fine with the three of us."

Sighing, John let Virgil push him from the room. "Thanks," he offered, "I think." It was always hard to tell when his brothers were joking, but John had a sneaking suspicion that Virgil was correct on all counts, and that he was guilty on all charges. "Thanks, Virg."

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_Tune in next time for "A Tracy Family Holiday", coming soon to a fanfic near you. ;)_


	7. A Tracy Family Holiday

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_DISCLAIMER: I don't own the rights to Thunderbirds, and I don't intend to make any money from this story. It's a little piece of fluff, and nothing more. This project is keeping me sane through school, though, so unless someone wants to add another person to the nearest mental hospital, please don't sue. ;) Thank you._

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**A Tracy Family Holiday **

**July 2015**

The Tracy family jet sailed gracefully over the Pacific Ocean, its blue tail reflecting in the crystal waters of the Southern Hemisphere. The soft droning of the engines was the only noise to break the silence of the quiet and lapping waves. Inside the plane, however, the atmosphere was more unruly than not.

"Scott, watch the nose elevation. We don't want to send your brothers into the rear fuselage."

Turning his head just enough that he could make eye contact with his father, Scott Tracy grinned slightly and did nothing to tweak the controls in the cockpit. "Dad, I've got everything under control. After flying those Hornets, this little turbo jet is like kindergarten stuff to me."

His cocky smile disappeared when the plane suddenly lunged forward, sending the members of the Tracy family forward in their seats. "Honestly," Scott gasped, immediately bringing the plane out of the turbulent zone back into dead-air. "I know what I'm doing!"

"I know the feeling," Jeff laughed, slapping his son on the back. "But when I was in flight training I became a bit too accustomed to the self-adjusting and monitoring systems of the fighter jets. Then, when I went to fly a private jet again, I nearly crashed her because I was expecting her to compensate for too much."

From the passenger section, the voice of the second youngest Tracy drifted through the open door into the cockpit. "Dad's saying you're being lazy, Scott."

"Well, Gordon," Scott yelled to the back, "at least I'm making an effort to get us there. All you're doing is eating stuff and adding to the overall bulk in the main fuselage."

"Hey!" Gordon rolled his eyes, and threw himself irritably back in his seat. "Well, all we've been done back here is bounce up and down for the past hour."

From his seat beside the ginger-haired teenager, Virgil Tracy rolled his eyes as well and placed his left hand on his brother's shoulder. "Want me to chuck the excess baggage, Scott?"

Gordon's eyes went wide. "You wouldn't do that! I'd drown, we're over the Pacific."

"Oh, we'd give you a parachute," Scott assured him from up front. "Don't worry about that."

"Dad!"

Jeff Tracy wisely kept silent, knowing full well after nearly nineteen years of parental experience that choosing a side between all of his sons was always a mistake. Instead, he kept his eyes closely on the instruments, making sure that Scott didn't do anything stupid while he was bantering with his brothers.

"And there probably aren't sharks in this area anyway."

"Virgil! Whose side are you on?"

Poking his head around his seat, Alan looked back at his two brothers with a slightly worried expression on his face. "What if there are, Virg?"

"Don't worry, Alan." Everyone suddenly became quiet when John's soft voice perked up from beside Alan. "We all know that Gordon's a fish, so he shouldn't have any problems fitting right in if we take a detour and drop him off at the Great Barrier Reef. I think his hair would be enough to allow him to blend in with the denizens quite nicely." John's voice was cut off as the plane jumped again. The rocking motion sent the other boys back in their seats, and had John scrambling for a barf bag.

Amusement blossoming across his face, Virgil turned back to his brother and pretended to toss him out of the window. "John's right, Gord. How 'bout we drop you here, and meet you at the island?"

"It'll save fuel," Scott added from the cockpit, "that's for sure, considering how much chocolate he keeps mooching from the rear hold! I'm going to have to re-balance the plane soon."

Gordon stared indignantly forward, refusing to meet the gaze of any of his brothers who - including Alan - were now laughing hard at his expense.

"Geeze," he muttered under his breath, "you'd think there was something funny going on."

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By the time that Scott brought the plane down for a landing on the family island, Gordon had nearly had enough of anyone else in the craft. He was the first one out the hatch, and the first one into the vacation cottage, where he promptly slammed and locked the door.

Jeff carried a key of course, but all the same he sought out Gordon in the changing room so that he could have a few well-picked words with his son. Leaning his shoulder against the door-jam so that a shadow was cast over the room, the patriarch of the Tracy family did not give the presence of a happy individual.

"If you fool around, Gordon, someday someone's going to return that favour to you."

Making a face of his own, Gordon turned red and angrily threw a towel across the room. "Aw, come on dad! I was just making a little joke, and they all jumped on me. They were out of line."

"You were out of line, you mean," Jeff replied coolly, wondering for the thousandth time where on Earth Gordon's red hair had come from, and how he managed to turn the same colour as it when he was mad. "They're not picking on you, Gordon. The entire situation was initiated by you, and they all had a right to joke back."

"Yeah?" The younger Tracy threw himself on one of the beds in the room. "Well, every time that Scott gets home it's like I have another dad bugging me! Everyone pokes at me, including Virgil. Maybe it's funny sometimes, but it isn't right now. I don't like everyone ganging up on me."

Jeff really wasn't sure whether to be insulted by Gordon's words or not. "I don't know what you're implying about me, Gordon, but I do know that you shouldn't be talking about Scott that way. He's come home from the Forces for a bit just so we can all have a break, and now you're acting as though you don't want him around-"

"Yeah, well maybe Scott likes to be serious and everything and can't take a joke, but I'm different!" The bitterness in Gordon's tone sent Jeff back a step. "Go ahead, dad, ignore me. That'd be nothing new. But in the last few weeks I've suddenly been expected to become an adult, and I don't really want to be one. I just want to be a normal teenager that can hang out with his friends and not worry about getting a job or looking after a house!"

Taken aback slightly, Jeff stepped forward and laid a hand on his son's shoulder. "Gordon . . ."

"Don't tell me that I don't have to," Gordon snapped suddenly, throwing his father's hand away from him, "because I do. Because Scott's decided to be an adult, and he's decided that he can go off and leave this house, and expect all of us to do his - and your - job for him. Because John had a break-down last week because he's been trying to be our dad for us when you're not around."

"Gordon," Jeff whispered, astounded at what he was hearing.

"I love my brother," continued Gordon, his voice rising, "and I'll do whatever I have to make sure that he's okay, but that doesn't mean that I want to!" His voice cracked with the last few words, and he reached up a hand to cover his eyes. "Listen, dad, just leave me alone." With that, he rolled over, stared at the wall, and refused to say anything else.

All the while Jeff stood silently, wondering whether or not he could possibly do anything. The sound of feet outside the door led him to wonder how many ears had been listening in on the conversation. Shaking his head, and mentally berating himself for letting the situation escalate to the point that it had, Jeff turned around and left the room.

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Gordon's face was still downcast when he finally walked onto the pool deck, though he was wearing his swimming trunks and seemed ready for a dip. He walked by Scott without speaking, and simply stood by the edge of the water, his hair rustling slightly in the warm pacific wind.

It was Scott, dressed in a white tee and a blue pair of swimming trunks, who moved towards Gordon first. The oldest Tracy boy stood up from his beach chair, grabbed his brother, and pulled him into the tightest stranglehold that he could manage. When Gordon yelped and tried to kick free, Scott simply laughed and pushed his brother gently away.

"Thanks, Gord." Scott smiled at Gordon's expression, and he gave the teen's hair a thorough mussing with his hand, much to the redhead's dismay. "I mean it. You don't know how much it means to me to be able to go out and do what I'm doing. You guys are going about life without me to be there for you." He stopped, and looked at Gordon for a long moment. "I didn't mean to leave you guys hanging," he finally admitted, "and it was a bad move on my part to leave when I did. But I guess that we've never really had it easy in this family, have we?"

"I'm sorry," Gordon finally muttered, drawing a funny glance from Scott.

"Why?"

"For being angry, I guess. For being mad at you for wanting to do something with your life, for you wanting to grow up and do something important. I haven't looked that far - I was just concerned about what I'd be doing over the summer with my friends."

"We'll make sure that you have fun," Scott assured him. "Seriously, Gordon, I'll make sure that you guys aren't out on a limb all the time. We'll make this work somehow. And, if someone had told me at your age that I would have to suddenly drop everything in my life and do what you're doing, I would probably have punched the guy's lights out. At least you haven't got in a fight with anyone yet."

On his beach chair where he sat in his swim trunks, John snorted and pushed his sunglasses down his nose so that he could lock gazes with Gordon. "You still have a better record than I do, Scott." He raised an amused eyebrow. "How's the neck feeling?"

Slightly embarrassed, Gordon unconsciously reached up a hand to rub his throat. "Uh, better I guess."

Looking between John and Gordon, Scott also raised an eyebrow. "Did you two have a fight?"

"It was a bit one sided," Virgil commented from the pool. "I've never seen Gordon pinned so quickly by anyone before. I think John could go into pro-wrestling."

John turned a bright shade of red, and quickly pushed his shades back over his eyes. "Hardly."

A look of incredulity spreading over his face, Scott grinned broadly and turned to look at John. "Seriously? You kicked Gordon's can? This must be more serious than I first thought."

"He did not kick my can!" Gordon put in, insulted that Scott thought John had actually beaten him in anything other than a game of chess.

"I'm a man of science," John argued lightly, folding his hands behind his head. "A peaceful pursuer of the gentle arts. I don't kick anyone's 'can'."

Virgil snorted, and tossed a handful of water at John. "So, strangling Gordon is one of the gentler arts, is it?"

Ignoring both Virgil and the water dripping from his face, John simply relaxed on the chair and took in the warm rays of the South Pacific. "Whatever."

"Enough of this," declared Gordon, tiring of the conversation, "the water is warm and it is calling my name." Taking a step backwards for balance, he threw himself forward into the water. "Cannonball!"

A wave went up from the pool onto the deck, drenching both Scott and John so bad that water droplets were trickling down their faces. His expression neutral, John reached up a hand and flicked a dangling blond hair from off his sunglasses. "For a kid who can dive a perfect one-half pike from the high board, you sure can make a mess in that pool."

Gordon surfaced from the water, took one look at his brother, and happily threw his red locks behind his ears. "You just hate being wet."

"You're right, Gord, I do hate being wet. Now stop splashing me."

A sly look came across Gordon's face. He looked sideways to Virgil, then looked back to John. "Okay. I'll stop."

With that Virgil pulled out a water gun from behind his back, aimed at John, and sent another torrent of water directly at his brother. The spray hit the blond-haired teen smack in the face.

Watching the entire scene from a distance, Scott simply covered his mouth and tried not to laugh too hard. "John, you look like a drowned animal."

His glasses askew on his face, John gave Scott a dark look. "Technically," he muttered dryly, "that would be correct. I am an animal, and I'm pretty close to drowned." He looked directly at Virgil, thought for a moment, then pushed up from the chair. "That's it. You've asked for it."

Virgil's face paled for a moment, and he brought his hand to his mouth in mock horror. "Oh my, he's going to throw the half-nelson on us, Gordon!"

"Wrong," John declared, cracking his fingers in front of him. "I'm going to give you the full-nelson." He grinned, and threw himself as hard as he could into the water.

"Hypocrite!" Gordon groaned, swimming out of the way as his brother crashed into the pool. "You're gonna give us a can kicking, and in the water too!"

Amidst the screams of his brother's, Scott could distinctly hear Alan's voice drifting from the other side of the pool.

"You guys are dorks."

"Come on Alan," Gordon shouted from the water, "help me! John's trying to drown me!"

"Looks like things are back to normal," Scott sighed quietly, deciding that it was time for him to join in on the fun. "Time to relax." Pulling off his T-shirt, he jumped into the water and joined the madness.

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Jeff Tracy looked down on his boys from the clear window of the observation deck, and marvelled at how much they had grown since their last visit to the island. So much had changed from the last year - and not all of it, he noted sadly, was good.

While Scott had finally matured to be a trusted if not wise adult, Gordon was obviously launching into the moody teenage years that Jeff's three older children had missed. Scott, John, and Virgil had simply not had the time or the opportunity to grow rebellious. They had grown up instead, had been forced to by the early death of their mother. Gordon, for whatever reason, was not willing to taking life with a spoon of sugar, and seemed to be out to make everything hell for his father.

And there were the physical differences, the changes that were beginning to make Jeff wonder where his children were going.

Alan had begun to grow, and was beginning catching up in height and bulk to his brothers. Though still a child in his own right, he was beginning to show signs of maturity beyond his years.

John had finally stopped growing - Jeff thought thankfully - and he rivalled Scott for height. There was no similarity past that, however. Where Scott was solid and muscular, John was thin and gangly, and not built for the physical sports that Scott had craved at school.

And then there were Gordon and Virgil, who were also making the subtle transition from boys to men; their frames were becoming stockier and stronger as their bodies caught up with their teenage growing spurts, though Virgil seemed destined to be the shortest member of the family. Jeff had found himself grinning the previous week when he had caught Virgil with a tiny bit of stubble growing on his chin.

It was obvious physically that his children were not children anymore. Even Alan was showing signs of jumping into adolescence in a few years, and the thought of all of his children being older than ten was enough to make Jeff stop and think about everything that had happened. The transition was not just physical, though, as he had already noted.

Whether they wanted to or not, his boys _were_ growing up - some of them were leaving, and others were left behind to pick up where the missing individuals left off. Scott was gone, off on his own career in the Air Force, and it was very likely that John would soon be off as well, to some well-paying job somewhere in the world.

In the remnants of what used to be the Tracy family remained Virgil, Gordon, and Alan, still children that ought to be allowed the one grace of childhood, but couldn't be allowed it because of the circumstances. Virgil had already suffered, in Jeff's eyes, but the other two boys were still young enough to want everything that a young boy should want.

And if Jeff Tracy had anything to say about, the problems that he had seen surfacing would not last any longer. He was going to do something about the rift that was forming in his family. He wasn't quite sure what, but it had to be something drastic, since drastic things were happening of their own will.

He sighed, and gazed forlornly at his children. "I'll fix this all, boys, don't you worry. Father will sort everything out."

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**A/N** - All right, I'm off to find some good crow to eat, since you guys have proven me wrong. :) Thank you, thank you, for your reviews for the last chapter! I guess that I was worried about nothing, since you all seemed to like what I did with the characters. I'm glad to hear that, because I can go on with the rest of the story and not be forced to re-write anything major.

I'm going to put my A/N at the end from now on, in case anyone's wondering, just to save clutter at the top, and to save people from having to read all of this if they don't want to. I think that I just write too much, period, but I can't seem to escape that because I want to respond to you guys, if you take the time out to review! ;)

**andrewjameswilliams** – I have to agree with your remark about Alan. I find it hard to write boys his age, because I haven't really had any experience with kids, so I'm glad that I managed to hit the nail, per se. My own little brother isn't nearly as mature as he should be for his age – for reasons beyond his control – so I often am left trying to figure out how the heck Alan (or any boy from the age eight to about twelve) would act in a certain situation. I do think that, although he is mature for a kid his age (and I've been fighting with that later in the story )he would still display childish tendencies, such as running away from his brother when John is yelling.

**kazza **– I just couldn't bring myself to write Brains as 'Brains'. He seemed like such an enigma figure in the show and in the movie, and I wanted to make him seem more like a human being. I agree, though, Hyram Hackenbacker seems like a British joke. So much of the tv show is, really, if you think about it. ;) They constantly poke at American foreign policy.

**zeilfanaat **– I like that part too. My own little bro was the source of the A-word joke. He'll go around the house saying 'So and So called Someone an a-hole!', and it's so funny!

**miz greenleaf** – Hey, a new reader! :) That makes my day to see that.

**Leap of fate** – Thanks so much for the compliment, and (once again) it's great to see another new person reading this! I definitely agree with your comment about the guys. I think by the end of the fic they'll be close to what they're like in the movie/television show, but for now they are just boys growing up during hard times. I've especially enjoyed developing Gordon's character – I don't want to say too much, but I have the story finished up to (I think) 2018 now, and I'm really pleased with how the boys (especially Gordy) have taken off on their own! I feel like I didn't really write a thing, but just passed around the pen. Gordon is the only character that I have the pleasure of taking from childhood to 'adulthood', and its proving to be very rewarding from a writer's perspective.

**Assena **– I've found myself saying FAB at work. It seems to be dangerously catching. ;)

**Opal Girl** – Wow, I'm pleasantly surprised to hear you say that! Since we already really know what happens, it's nice to hear that the story still maintains an aura of surprise and intrigue about it.

Thanks again! Just to warn, I have finals coming up the next couple of weeks, but I should be able to post the next chappie soon, since I've almost finished editing it up. I'm being really bad and not sending these for beta reading, so if there's anything glaringly wrong, feel free to mention it and I'll correct it. FAB, all!


	8. Home

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_

_DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to Thunderbirds, or the rights to Star Wars and any of its associated media. This story is not meant to make any profit, and is for entertainment purposes only. Please don't sue – my tuition fees are due in two weeks, and I won't have much money after that._

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**Home  
Mid July 2015  
(Approx. one week after A Tracy Family Holiday)**

"What do you mean 'stay here'," Virgil Tracy wondered, fixing his dad with a long stare. "Stay here, as in here on the island?"

Jeff looked around at his sons, who stood in a line at the edge of the pool, and nodded slowly. "That's exactly what I mean. I'd like to sell the house back on the mainland, and make this place our permanent residence."

"What about school? We can't just hang around here all the time and do nothing," Virgil continued, seemingly unsatisfied with his father's response.

"I've been looking at schools along the coast, and there's a really fine boarding school over in Oregon that I've registered you three boys at."

For a moment the only sound that could be heard was the soft rippling of the pool water. Finally, Gordon shook his head, his expression incredulous, and rubbed a hand through his hair.

"Geeze. _Geeze._ I can't believe this." He looked at Virgil, and shook his head again. "When I said that I liked this place, this wasn't really what I was thinking."

Virgil nodded, and he folded his arms across his chest. "Dad, I don't really know what to say."

"It's the best that I can offer," Jeff replied helplessly, spreading his hands in a gesture of good will. "Virgil, I don't want to leave things the way that they are. You boys are out in the cold right now, and that's my fault as a father if something happens to you."

"So you think this will make it better?" Gordon spat, digging his foot into the sandy surface of the deck. "Seriously, dad, do you know what you're doing to us?"

"And I just got into another school, I don't want to be leaving already!" Virgil agreed, tossing his head so that his wet hair hung in ringlets about his eyes. "Dad, we'll make do the way things are now."

Virgil and Jeff held gazes, until Jeff sighed and waved his son away. "Virgil, you can't make do. What happens when one of you needs something, and I can't be around to help you?" He rubbed his face with his hands. "I haven't been much of a father lately. At least this way, with me home all the time, you'll have someone to turn to."

"Not if we're away at boarding school," Virgil replied dryly.

"What are we supposed to do?" added Gordon, his face beginning to turn red as his temper flared. "Dial you up and let you console us over the phone?"

"Boys!" Jeff tried to push down the emotion that was rising in him. "Gordon, Virgil, try to understand. At least that way you wouldn't have to worry about keeping a house. They'll supply the basic necessities that you'll need. And I will only be a phone call away. I won't be in meetings. I won't be at headquarters. I'll always be around."

"I still don't see why we can't just stay at our normal house," muttered Virgil. "I don't want to move, Dad. That's that. We don't need to come here."

Jeff stood a very long moment before answering. The sureness that had been present on his face when he had first spoken to the boys had vanished, and was replaced with a tired, almost sorrowful, expression of grief. "Virgil, I want to give us a fresh start. I think it's important that we move on as a family and tighten those bonds that we have left."

Gordon laughed rudely, irritation plain on his face. "Yeah, and we'll do that by picking us up and throwing us in the middle of no-where. That's a real smart idea."

"Just listen to dad, guys," Scott replied, trying to keep everything under control. "He's got his reasons."

"At least it'd be the island," threw in Alan, "it's nice here. You both said that you wanted to stay."

"I didn't think anyone would take me serious!" Gordon glared at his brother, sending Alan back a step. "Maybe you don't care about moving, but I have friends that don't want me to go. If you don't that's not my fault. Why don't you just go spend your summer alone, like dad wants us all to do?"

The rest of the Tracy's gasped audibly at Gordon's bitter tear at his brother. Alan himself took a step backwards, his eyes big, then turned and ran from the pool.

"Gordon!" Jeff gasped. He hadn't expected Gordon to take it so badly. In fact, he hadn't expected Virgil to either, though in retrospect, he had obviously ignored the warning signs that had been there.

"Gordon," John began softly, his face worried, "don't turn this into a fight."

His eyes becoming angry, Gordon spun around and faced John down with a horrible stare. "Don't you start turning into dad! We don't need another one of him!"

"Gordon."

"Shut up, John. We all know why you don't care. It's not like you care where you go to school."

John's eyes narrowed slightly and his one hand curled tightly at his side. "Yeah? And why is that?"

Scott, Virgil, and Jeff nearly went bug-eyed as the exchange became more heated. They all subconsciously took a step backwards, giving the two much needed space.

"Boys," Jeff began, only to stop when he felt Scott's hand on his shoulder.

"Dad, don't, you'll only make it worse."

Meanwhile, Gordon had taken a step towards John and was now glaring up into his brother's blue eyes. "Know why? Because you don't have any friends, that's why. You couldn't care less if you left - in fact, I bet that you'd be happy to leave. You can always take courses from home anyway. It doesn't matter where you go, John. You're not leaving anything behind."

Jeff couldn't hold it in; he couldn't stand by and watch Gordon methodically destroy all of his siblings. "Gordon! Apologise to your brother immediately."

Giving his father a dangerous look from darkening eyes, Gordon snapped back, "No, so why don't you keep out of this? It's your damn fault anyway."

"Gordon! I won't stand around while you –"

"Yeah, well, what have you ever done?" The redhead roared loudly, his face the darkest shade of crimson. "I see more of this family than you do. Do you think I don't notice the way my own brother acts?"

Jeff opened his mouth to respond, but he was too shocked to find his voice. He turned to John, who seemed to be taking in the entire conversation in a state of denial, and tried in some way to convey to his son how upset he was with Gordon's behaviour.

If John saw, he didn't acknowledge his father's concerned gaze. In fact, there was very little emotion left on his face at all. "Yeah," he muttered finally, his voice strained, "yeah, I guess you're right Gordon. Maybe I don't care about coming here. Maybe I'm just glad that we're coming, because I'm sick and tired of everybody taking a strip out of everybody else because some idiot five years ago decided to skimp out on their safety check of a Swiss monorail line. But I think Dad's right about starting over. I don't want to remember any of that anymore."

Gordon's mouth dropped slightly, but before he could respond John turned from him and walked off the deck, up the walkway, and into the house, closing the door quietly behind him.

"Dammit," Jeff muttered, looking Scott in the eyes, "I should have stopped them."

"What could you have done, dad?"

A howl escaped Gordon's lips, and he sunk to the pool deck and wrapped himself in his arms. "Why the hell does this always happen to me? Now I've pissed off John too. I may as well piss off everybody else, I guess, so that we're all even."

"Gordon . . ." Standing so that his hand could just brush the top of Gordon's head, Jeff reached down and ran his fingers through his son's red locks. He knelt down, and wrapped his other arm about the boy's shaking shoulders. "Gordon. Listen to me." Jeff waited for the rebuttal, waited for Gordon to stand and take a swing at him and break his nose. It didn't happen.

This time, unlike in the bedroom, Gordon didn't even argue with his father. He didn't say anything at all. Instead, he threw himself forward onto Jeff's chest, burying his face in his father's shirt so that his tears stained the cotton material.

"I'm not mad at you," Jeff comforted his son, "so don't ever think that. Maybe you were out of line taking a strip out of your brothers, but I can't blame you for being angry with me. I brought this on myself."

"I'm such a bastard."

"You're my son."

Off to the side, Virgil nodded in agreement. He slowly walked over Jeff, and put his arms around his father so that his hands encompassed Gordon's shoulders as well.

It wasn't long before Scott joined in, embracing his father and his younger brothers with a compassion that words could not explain. The four sat for a long moment, as if feeling each other's pain, until Jeff pushed his children away from him. He stared at each of them, his own eyes reddening.

"Boys," he began, only to be silenced by a hollow laugh that escaped Gordon's mouth.

"Dad, you don't have to say it. We're all a bunch of idiots sometimes, and that's not your fault."

"You're trying," Virgil added softly, forcing a smile onto his face. "Heck, that means more to me than anything else, including staying at my school."

Though he could hear the pain that echoed in his son's voices, there was no doubting their words. They _were_ his sons, and they would, Jeff knew, trust him to do what was right. It would be a long while until things were truly settled down emotionally in the household, but at least they had all survived the initial shock.

When he finally spoke, Jeff could not hide his relief that his sons were still speaking to him. It washed over his face, and helped to ease the creases in his forehead. "I know this will be different, boys, but maybe in the long run it will be better. It's a fresh start for all of us. Besides, if I'm to do my work from home to begin with, I'd rather have it kept in a more secure location. We have to make some sacrifices in order to gain other things."

"I think it will help," Scott agreed, looking at Virgil and Gordon in turn. "Listen, living here for the will be different, but I think we'll gain more than we'll lose. It's not as though we were living in the middle of a really commercial neighbourhood anyway. It'd just be us, this family, and no one else could intervene on it. We're here anyway for a month, so why not get the place ready while we're at it? We can go back to the mainland house for a little while later just to pack up."

"Guess so," Gordon hiccuped, his eyes turning red from the tears.

"Besides," Scott offered softly, "I think the beach is way better than the pool anyway, huh?"

"What about my friends _now_?" asked the redhead, ignoring Scott's attempts to comfort him.

"Maybe later," he glanced over at his father, "you could ask dad if you could go visit them for a few days. I'm sure one of them would let you stay at their house for a few days. 'Sides, you could always stay at the school over the summer if you wanted."

"I guess."

Nothing lifted Jeff's heart more than hearing the casual talk of his sons again. He sighed, and wiped a line of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "You boys are wonderful. I hope you know that. I am truly blessed as a father to have children like you."

Virgil's feigned smile quickly disappeared. "Guess we should go find John and Alan."

Gordon's face fell even more, his expression dour, and he gave Virgil a sour look. "I really did screw up, didn't I?"

Thinking for a moment, Virgil nodded and clapped Gordon on the shoulder. "Gord, I believe that it's called 'open mouth, insert foot'."

Meanwhile, Scott had already trotted over to the door to the home. He held it open with one hand, waiting for the rest of his family to follow. "I'll find John. I'm sure that Alan will come back on his own, but I'll do a quick look around just to be sure." He looked at his father, and the two locked gazes. "Just keep Virg and Gord here. I won't be long."

* * *

It didn't take Scott long to find John. The blond-haired teen was sitting restlessly on the beach, fiddling in an irritated manner with the telescope that lay in front of him. Scott watched for a long moment as John adjusted, then readjusted, the dials on the tube, the blond haired teen's eyes narrowing in annoyance when he couldn't get the setting that he wanted. 

"Not much to look at right now," Scott offered finally, his words causing John's head to fly up with a snap. "It's kind of bright out."

"I'm trying to find Mercury," John muttered, turning his attention back to the telescope. "It was easier to find back at home than it is here. Besides," he smacked the scope lightly with his hand. "My other one is better for this. It has better light filters and resolving power."

Staring at his brother and trying to find something to say, Scott discovered that for once he didn't have much to offer in the way of consolation. For even if Gordon had been a jerk when he had said what he had said, what he had said had been for the most part true. Something was going horribly wrong in John's life, and that couldn't be ignored.

"Gord is sorry." It wasn't much, but it was a start.

"Gordon should mind his own business," John snapped back, and Scott could distinctly hear the hurt in his voice. "Tell him to leave me out of his problems. I could really care less where we go."

"Yeah you do," Scott replied immediately, walking forward so that he stood between John and the scope. "I know that you care, John. You even said so. Dad knows that too, and so do Virgil and Gordon." He sighed, and gave John a knowing look. "Listen, I stood up for you during elementary school when you didn't have the guts to tell those guys off for beating you up. I can't stand up for you at home."

"This has nothing to do with that!" John argued, his face colouring a deep scarlet. "I don't want to beat Gordon up just to prove a point. I've already done that, and it didn't help. I don't care what happens."

Dropping to the sand, Scott inched over so that he was close enough to John to put his arm around his brother's shoulder. "Actually, John, it did help. You made Gordon and Virgil think about something that they'd never worried about before - you, and the way that you're coping with this whole mess. But you're right, and I'm not saying that I want you to give Gordon another can kicking. You just need to be more assertive, that's all."

John didn't say anything at first. Instead, his eyes were locked on a point in the heavens where there was nothing to see but blue sky. "Scott," John finally mumbled softly, "It would be so much better if people would just leave me alone."

"Why?"

"Because when they don't, it just makes things worse." He sighed, covering his face with his hands. "They don't understand me. Nobody does. I can be assertive, Scott, I really can be if I have to, but I don't want to be. I just mess things up. I couldn't really talk to anyone at school, because I would inevitably say something that would make them laugh. Even now it still happens. I try and try to be what everyone thinks I should be - but what I am and what_ they_ expect a sixteen-year old to be is not the same thing. I couldn't even take being 'dad' for a couple of months, Scott. I'm just useless to this family. I'm just useless to everyone."

The words, spoken with such pain, made Scott reel back in shock. "God, John, no, you're not useless! Of course not." He gave his brother a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. "And there are people that understand you - don't give me that crap."

The sound of Scott cursing seemed to bring John back from wherever he had gone. He turned, and looked at Scott with a pair of pale blue eyes. "I know." The words were quiet. "I know." John's eyes became distant. "Remember that time, when I was in my sophomore year, and Sandra Hurkley was having that huge party?"

"Yeah."

A sad smile came to John's lips. "And you pulled every string that you could, just so that I could go with you, so that I could be 'in the circle'?"

"Yeah." Scott cringed at the mere thought of the party. "Yeah."

"And I was so gone on beer that I decided to flirt with her?"

"I thought you only had three."

"I was still completely lost."

Sandra had been two years John's senior, and everyone at the school had known that she had had a huge crush on Scott. It was only that crush that had convinced her to allow 'Scott's weird little brother' to come. She had also been the captain of the school cheerleading squad, and was well known as the best looking girl in her graduating class.

What the she hadn't known was that John had had a huge crush on her.

"John, don't remind me."

"And I thought it'd be cool to try and explain the birthing process of a star to her, when I couldn't even string a coherent sentence together."

"I remember." Oh God, did he ever. The thought of his younger brother, trashed beyond belief, sitting next to Sandra Hurkley and waving his arms in the air like a college professor during a lecture, was pretty hard to forget.

"I wasn't trying to be fresh. I was trying to make polite conversation."

_While you were drunk like there was no tomorrow,_ Scott thought mildly.

"She poured her drink on me."

"Sandra did that to a lot of people," Scott replied. "I wouldn't take it personally."

"I don't. Want to know why?"

"Why?"

"That's what my entire life has been like. That's why I don't go to parties anymore. That's also why I don't drink anymore. It's not worth it. I thought I could be part of the group, but I ended up making a worse mess of things."

At that moment, Scott could begin to imagine what school must have been like for his brother. He didn't know what the kids did to John when he wasn't around to help him out, but he did know how much John cared about others - and what others thought of him. John didn't like to disappoint anyone, and it seemed as though failure to John meant not meeting the standards of a society that was too closed-minded for its own good.

"You don't need to worry about what everyone else says," Scott finally replied, keeping his brother's gaze. "Don't listen to them - you'll just end up feeling lonely because of the millions of people that can't see that you're a really special and wonderful person. You've got five people here that don't give a damn what anyone else thinks. Listen to those people, John." he finished, raising an eyebrow. "Even if they are jerks some of the time, they're the only ones that matter. They're jerks that love you."

Scott's words seemed to have a resounding affect on his brother.

John nodded slowly, blinked his eyes hard, and then rubbed his face wearily with his hands. "Look at this. I really have to start acting my age."

A snort escaped Scott's lips. "Good lord John, if you have to act your age, what does that say about the rest of us?"

"That we're doomed," John replied shortly, obviously in an impression of some person from some movie or television show.

Scott blinked once, then laughed when he realised whom it was that John was imitating. "But you notice," he snorted, "how Threepio always managed to survive everything that was happening to him."

"And he always tried to make everyone happy," added John mournfully. "Poor guy. No wonder he was such a depressant."

The two shared a good, hard laugh at that remark, for neither John nor Scott could avoid the obvious comparisons that could be made between the golden droid and another certain individual. "I don't know why there isn't more room in this world for people like you," Scott finally ventured, his expression soft. "You deserve to be recognized for what you're doing."

"Yeah," John replied quietly, "well, Threepio wasn't appreciated much either. And not many people have seen that movie anymore," he muttered as an after-thought. "I know Sandra hadn't."

"Forget about Sandra, John, she wasn't worth your time. And hey, he was appreciated! He was the one that got them through a lot of situations, him and his know-how." Scott grinned, and gave John a playful punch on the shoulder. "He could speak over six million dialects, huh? He was the voice for that team. He always had something to say about something."

"He talked too much and always ticked off Han Solo," the younger Tracy sighed, "and inevitably was turned off. It's kind of like getting a drink poured on you."

"It'd be pretty hard to turn you off," Scott assured him, "you're kind of hard to ignore. You've got way too much going for you - people will take notice of that eventually. Someday, John, people will look up and take guidance from the brightest star in the sky. Even if they don't know what that light is, they'll recognize that it's something important."

The two sat in silence for a moment, staring out at the vast expanse of ocean. John finally sighed and pushed himself to his feet. He quietly picked up the telescope in his arms, then turned to his brother. "Hey, Scott?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

* * *

Gordon glanced towards Virgil, his brown eyes reflecting a returning yet subtle amusement, as Alan came trudging back towards the pool. "I wonder how long Scott and John will look for him." 

"Probably a while," Virgil admitted, watching as Alan wandered over to his father. "Just to be sure. And then they'll realize that he came back here, and Scott will decide that he'd better kick your ass just to make sure that you've learned your lesson."

Sighing, Gordon also trudged over to Jeff. He tapped Alan on the shoulder, then pulled the boy into a tight stranglehold. "You shouldn't wander off on your own," he snickered, "you could get lost."

"No worse than you," Alan replied back, trying to get out of Gordon's iron grip. "Now let me go. I'm still mad at you."

Jeff gave both of the boys an amused look, then turned to walk towards the house. "I think I'll leave you boys alone. Someone has to cook supper, you know." He glanced in Virgil's direction, and gave a tiny wink. "Try not to let them hurt each other too badly." With that, he was gone into the house.

"No dad!" Alan shrieked, though the scream was more comical in tone than it was serious. "Gordon will kill me!"

"Maybe with a noogie," the red-haired teen promised, digging his knuckles into Alan's skull. Before he could get far, though, Alan had his foot firmly down on Gordon's instep. Gordon gasped, let go of Alan then moaned as Alan kicked him in the shin.

"Stupid jerk!" Alan yelled, and he ran towards the house.

Wincing in pain, Gordon looked to his remaining brother, only to see Virgil shaking his head in amusement.

"I could say that I told you so."

"Oh yeah," Gordon snorted, rubbing his shin and foot. "I know. Hey, maybe things are back to normal. It's only Alan that wants to kill me now." He glanced warily over at Virgil. "I'm on your good side, right?"

"Always," Virgil responded, smirking as Gordon continued to massage his leg. "Gordon, you make me laugh too often for me to be mad at you."

Tossing his brother a mild glare, Gordon shrugged and turned towards the house. "Come on, let's go help Dad with supper."

Virgil nodded, and the two brothers made their way to the house, leaving the pool deck deserted. Only the occasional call of a tropical bird and the persistent humming of the southerly wind broke the silence.

* * *

**A/N**: So, after a long hiatus, I'm finally back! I guess it wasn't really that long, but it seemed like forever to me. If anyone's curious, I survived my exams, and I won't have to take any classes over again. ;) Thanks to those people who wished me luck! 

Anyway, I have to say (once again!) a huge thank-you to everyone that reviewed the last chapter! I'll have to make sure that I keep the quality of these chapters up, because I keep having more readers every time I post a new one. I definitely don't want to disappoint. Reading the reviews was excellent medicine during exam week, and it kept me motivated to survive those tests so that I could write more. :)

I'd like to point out that this chapter was thoroughly beta-read by my excellent beta reader, **Ariel D**. You wouldn't believe how much stuff we ironed out of it. I couldn't imagine even being able to post this without her assistance. Thank You! :D

lol And I'm sorry about the _Star Wars_ reference. I couldn't help it. If anyone has read the _X-wing_ comics, they'll understand why I think John is like Hobbie Klivian in this part. ;) He needs to be less dour . . .

Okay, to respond to everyone that reviewed:

**Math Girl** – Hope you like this one as much. But I have to admit that I'm rather partial to your computer-hacker version of John. He has a little more backbone than my version does. ;)

**mcj** – Thank you! :) I'm flattered that you think that. If I ever need inspiration (or I think my work has outlived its time) I just go and read your stuff. Seventeen chapters later, and it never fails to thrill me. If mine could ever be half as long and detailed as yours . . . :)

**thunderbirdgirl **– Hmm, more about Virgil. I'll have to work on that. ;) I've been tossing around the idea of doing a short fic with the boys during school, with one chapter for each of them, so if that happens, you'll see him there. Aside from that, Virgil does show up more often in the later chapters. His story arc comes a little further along. I'm glad you like the 'fighting' – I've grown up in a family with a lot of great uncles, and I've heard quite a few stories recently about how they acted as children. I need go no further for inspiration. ;)

**andrewjameswilliams** – Oh yeah, he'll fix it all right. ;) You'll soon see how much the boys know. I won't be revealing everything outright, but in a few chapters you'll know how everything lies. Speaking of lies, Jeff definitely got caught in a big one in this chapter. It's a good thing that the boys really love him, or they might not take his words at face value. He's trying to juggle them, and the formation of IR – we'll see which one takes priority.

On a side note, if anyone here actually flies, I'd like to apologise in advance for my later chapters. I'm not actually a pilot myself, so I'm not a hundred percent familiar with the jargon and technicalities of the profession. Feel free to correct me anytime. :)

**Kitkat Tictac** – Don't worry, there's plenty more where this came from. :) I think the entire document is topping sixty-thousand words, so you'll have a lot more to read. I'm glad that you like the humour. I try to weave it into the angsty parts to help alleviate tension.

**Agent Five** – Man, would I love to have a sequel! They could go into such lovely detail, and really make the boys seem like people. I'll just have to stick with the DVD, I guess. ;) A lot of my characterisation comes from analysing the show. Little scenes, like the one where Virgil and Gordon are roasting Alan when Tintin's out on a date, say a lot. I did draw a lot of John's personality from the movie, though I think you'll see parallels to 'All-American' John of classic 'Birds. I'll just say this – pay attention to little stuff. Most of what I write is there for a purpose and it will come up again later in the story. ;)

**Marblez** – okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay. ;) lol It's oddly encouraging to receive a review like that.

**zeilfanaat** – Pools are great places to try and kill someone and make it look like an accident. ;) John's definitely got that figured out.

**miz greenleaf** – I always feel so guilty writing John and Gordon's characters – I put them through so much, it's horrible. ;) Oh, don't worry about John. He won't be thin and gangly forever.

**Devlinn Reiko-sama** – The next two chapters should be following this one pretty close. They're a much lighter read, and there's even have some nice digital media to go with them. Ah, you'll see soon. :)

Anyway, thanks again all! The feedback is tremendously appreciated. :D

**_FAB! all, and Happy Holidays, for whatever holiday you're celebrating!_**


	9. His Father's Son

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_DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to Thunderbirds, nor do I intend to make any profit from this story. It is strictly for entertainment purposes only.__

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**His Father's Son  
Late July 2015**

"You want to learn to do what?" Jeff Tracy wondered, his eyebrows raised in surprise at his second eldest son. "Did I hear that properly?"

"I want to learn how to fly." John's eyes were twinkling with an excitement that Jeff had not seen in his son in a very long time. "I've been thinking, dad, and in just over a year I'll be old enough to apply for the space program! I could help out in the astrophysics department . . . but to do that, to actually help with the missions, I'd have to join the astronaut program. It would be so much easier if I had a pair of wings under my belt."

Inwardly, Jeff could not contain his grin. The thought of another of his sons pursuing the same career that he himself had taken made him giddy. Yet, he had not expected John of all people to come and talk to him about that very thing.

"Whoa, there, John, that's a pretty big commitment," he replied neutrally, though his voice carried a bit more enthusiasm than he had intended. "Besides, you can't apply right away - you need to finish your degree first. That would mean waiting until your nineteenth birthday." Jeff sighed, then continued. "Son, NASA isn't some come and go operation - you have to be completely devoted to the program, and you have to be willing to make a lot of sacrifices in the process."

He didn't have to say that John was already making those sacrifices in asking Jeff for his pilot's license. Jeff knew how much John hated flying, and for his boy to willingly volunteer to conquer his phobia . . .

"I know, dad," John said softly, "I know what they require. I've been thinking about this for a long time, now." John looked down at his feet. "They, uh, sent me a letter last month, before school finished up. They wanted to know if, with my grades, I would consider joining their astronaut program for Alpha Station when I graduate."

That revelation wasn't quite enough to startle Jeff, though it came awfully close. He had known for a long time how dedicated his son was to his studies, and he had seen the type of work that John had done.

Since Lucy had died, John had almost been single-minded in his devotion to his studies. He had thrown himself right into school, even sacrificing most of his summers in order to take classes ahead of schedule. His high school graduation the previous month had only been a symbolic gesture at best, Jeff understood, as he had already applied for and had begun several college courses on the side.

John was already a quarter of the way through his Bachelor's degree, which consisted of a combined set of classes including physics and astronomy. He could easily have it completed by his nineteenth birthday, in time to apply for the program. Jeff saw that John was ready, more than most people twice his age, for the challenge. But he also understood that a person had to be more than ready to take on a job at NASA.

There was something else needed that John had to have, or he wouldn't make it past the first screening - an actual desire to be in that line of work.

"That's really something," Jeff finally said, his voice warm with pride. "John, you don't know how happy I am for you."

"So you'll let me, then?"

The eagerness in John's voice almost had Jeff replying 'yes'. Almost, but not quite.

"I am happy for you, John, but I want you to think this over." Jeff cringed when his son's eyes closed, and his forehead wrinkled into a furrow.

"Why," John asked, the excitement suddenly gone from his voice. "Why?"

Jeff took John by the arm, and led him over to the couch that was in the corner of the games room. He sat John down, and looked his son in the eye. "You don't have to take a job just because someone offers it to you. I want you to make sure that it's what you want." When John began to speak, Jeff held up a hand to silence him.

"Let me finish. Most other positions I wouldn't care about. But NASA will demand a good two or three years of your life before you can even get in on a mission. Maybe if you're lucky, they'll let you go up to Alpha as a student, but more than likely you'll be stuck on the ground for a few years. That's if you even pass the astronaut testing in the first place."

"I'd be doing something, at least," John put in, his voice calm. "Dad, I want to do this. I want to do something with my life."

"What happened to being a radio-astronomer or something like that?"

"Dad!" John's voice was almost panicked. "Dad, I can't do something like that on my own. I need facilities. I can finish my degree and dream all that I want, but if someone is actually offering me a job . . ." He sighed, and rubbed his face with his hands. "Dad, this kind of thing won't happen to me all the time. It may not ever happen again, and I don't want to spend the rest of my life washing dishes somewhere wishing that I had taken the stupid job! They're offering me the chance to have one of the best celestial observation posts in the world!"

"You won't be washing dishes," Jeff responded quickly, only to have John hold up his hand to silence him.

"Please listen to _me_ now." John looked at his father, then threw himself backward onto the plush cushions. "I don't want to blow this."

"You won't blow it," Jeff sighed, "and I am listening to you. In fact, John, I care about you a lot, which is why I'm bothering you like this. I want you be happy with what you're doing, not convincing yourself every day that you're happy about what you're doing."

"There's no difference," John muttered, though there was a small lack of conviction in his voice. "I'd be happy."

"Would you?" Jeff asked honestly. "Would you, John? I know how much you dislike flying. Why not see if they can put you in another position-"

"No." The words were so final that Jeff found himself without words to respond with. "No, dad. If they need me there, if I can do some work there, then that's where I'll go. I want to do what I'm meant to do, what I'm needed to. If they put me in the other position," he stopped suddenly, he face tensing up. Composing himself, John finally finished, "I don't know what I'd do."

For the first time since John had hunted his father down in the recreation room, the young man's eyes carried a very different expression. There was a pain present in them, almost a hunger, which Jeff could not identify. It was a haunted look, one of a young man who had seen too much for his age, yet who could obviously still imagine something even more grievous and horrifying than that which he had already witnessed.

"John."

"Maybe I believe in destiny," the teen whispered, turning his head to look out past the window and into the deep blue sky that was slowly fading towards the colours of sunset. "If I can do something, in my own way, to make this world better, then I'll do it. I believe in the space program, dad. I believe in NASA. I believe that some day we'll be spanning those stars out there, spreading our civilisation to the furthest edges of the universe. I believe that we'll learn and grow from this challenge, and become better because of that."

He turned once again to look at his father, and there was no end to the hope that lay in his eyes. "And I believe that here and now, where it's all starting, I can do something to make that sequence of events take place. I want to do something with my life, dad. I want to be someone important."

Jeff couldn't find a single place in his heart where he could begin to form an argument against something said so eloquently. He simply stared back at his son, and wondered if he had perhaps inherited his wonderful way with words from his mother. How could Jeff say no to a child - no, he reminded himself, John was not a child anymore - that was willing to give up some piece of himself for the greater good?

If John truly wanted to go off and join the program, then he would not be the person to stop him.

"You changed things, dad," John finished softly, his face placid. "It would be a dream to do what you've done."

That was it, then, Jeff thought. He wanted to be like his father.

"So you want to learn to fly," Jeff said slowly.

The words sent a spark of light back into John's eyes. "That would be great, dad. It really would." A rare and honest smile tugged at John's cheeks, making his face look more boyish than it really was. "I promise that I won't throw up too often. I'll even clean the seats."

Jeff smiled too, and pulled his son close to him into a tight headlock. Ruffling John's hair, the Tracy patriarch couldn't help thanking his son silently for choosing a profession that he could at least understand. "You don't know how happy I am that you want to be an astronaut," he muttered, drawing a curious stare from John.

"Why, aside from the obvious reasons?"

Jeff rolled his eyes, and replied dryly, "Because last week Gordon told me he wanted to be a professional fish."

Trying to hold back a loud snort, John grinned at his father and shrugged. "Yeah, well, that's not unexpected is it?"

"I suppose not," Jeff sighed, "I suppose not."

* * *

"So you're roped into this too, huh?" Scott asked, his eyes mischievous. 

Virgil replied with a short nod, and folded his arms across his chest, his greasy forearms smearing a line along the front of his work shirt. "Not to clean the floors when he pukes, I'll have you know," he muttered, his tone slightly hurt. "Dad wants you to teach me too."

"Both of you?" Dropping the wrench that he was holding, Scott's face became a mask of amusement. "Why does he want you to learn how to fly?"

"I don't know," Virgil replied in exasperation, turning back to the family jet whose engine was half lying on the floor of the bay, extra gaskets and cylinders strewn all over the place. "Well, I do, but I'm not really happy about it."

"Hmm?" The dark haired Tracy reached down to pick up the wrench. "Why's that?"

Virgil grunted, busy trying to tighten a bolt on the top of the manifold. "Well," he gasped, "dad figures that we're going to need a way home over spring break or summer break if he or one of you guys can't come get us, and he doesn't want someone else ferrying us back here."

"It makes sense," the older boy offered, "if you think about it. He wants us to be self-sufficient."

"I thought he was trying to avoid that by sticking us all here on this lump of land! Don't know why he _wouldn't_ be home to pick us up." Giving the bolt a heave with his entire body, Virgil sighed in relief as he heard the metal snap into place. "I don't know why we can't just have someone drop us off. It's not like we're trying to maintain secrecy of our location or something." He frowned when the bolt snapped back to its original position.

Scott's face clouded for a moment as Virgil's words struck home. "Maybe he wants to avoid too much publicity about the move. After all, he's bumping all of his work files over here and those would be worth quite a bit on the black market."

Giving the engine a dirty glare, Virgil pointed his tool at his brother. "I am not sitting beside John when you teach him how to roll the plane."

"So that's what this is about."

"Don't get me wrong," Virgil replied immediately, "I'm really happy for John, but I don't want to be near him when he woofs up his lunch. And I'm not keen about flying the Pacific on my own, but that's besides the point."

Holding up his hand so as not to laugh too loud, Scott couldn't contain his amusement. "I won't be taking you out at the same time, Virg. I don't think I could handle both of you trying to learn at the same time." He gazed over at the plane for a moment, then frowned as well. "Hey, is this going to be finished by tonight?"

Virgil's eyes narrowed slightly, and he pointed at the single wrench that Scott held. "Listen, if you want to finish cleaning it, that's up to you. But I'm cleaning it right now, and if it takes me until tomorrow to do that, then it'll be ready tomorrow. If you actually did something other than watch me work we could be done by now."

Scott turned a mild shade of red, and muttered something about delegating duties and commanding officers.

Virgil snorted and turned back to the plane. "Whatever, top gun." He stopped, then continued in a more relaxed voice. "Listen, I'll try and have it finished for tonight. Tell John not to eat too much for supper, though, okay? I don't want to have to take apart and disinfect the main dash."

"It better not get to that point," Scott sighed as an afterthought. "Or I'll resign my commission and retire." He snorted, deciding that it would be best to help Virgil finish up with the cleaning. The sooner he finished up with the flying lessons, the better off he and John would be. "Here, let me give you a hand."

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**A/N:** Yay, Santa Claus was really good to me, and I came away from Christmas with an armful of Thunderbirds stuff! My mom even bought me a Game-boy Advance game, but I'm stuck on the first level . . . crashed Thunderbird One into a flock of birds. :S Think I'll stick with the movie, once I get a hold of the wide-screen version. I hope everyone else had a really wonderful Christmas! I know that I ate way too much for my own good. :) 

Anyway, reviews! :D

**Marblez – **_blushes_ Thank you! Sometime I'll get around to actually writing something original. It'll probably will be something to do with real science, because that's where my expertise actually lies.

**Opal Girl –** I'm really glad to hear that about Gordon. :D I have four red-haired cousins, and they're very feisty. Of course, Gordon's also in his teens, which doesn't help the matter. ;) About John – you can probably start to see signs of stuff happening in this chapter. He's sufferingthrough a pretty rough set of teen years.By the time that he takes over T-5, he'll be a slightly different person. All of the boys eventually will mature, and that grants a person a certain amount of wisdom into their own life. Thanks for the review! :)

**zeilfanaat –** Oh, there's lots more. ;) I have one chapter ready to post after this, and another dozen or so to go. I think when school starts I'll get back into writing again, but for now it's editing time. :) I need to finish this story, because I've momentarily put aside another story for Forgotten Realms, and it NEEDS to be finished, or my wonderful beta reader will hunt me down. ;)

**andrewjameswilliams – **I can attest that I've done similar things to my siblings in my youth. ;) Gordon _will_ grow up, though I won't have him loosing his spark any time soon. Glad that the part with the 'move' turned out well – it was the part that was edited the most, and I was worried about it the most!

**thunderbirdgirl** – Thanks so much! Hope you had a great Christmas too. :)

**miz greenleaf** – How long to type this? _thinks_ Well, I wrote this chapter sometime end-October/early-November, so it's been rolling around for a while. ;) In terms of typing time, the total text probably took only about an hour and a half max to type, likely less, but it was written over a period of about a week in between physics and math assignments. :) I've managed to rack up over sixty thousand words in just about three months. It's been quite a ride, and it's not finished yet. It might top a hundred thousand, but I could just be hopeful. ;)

**Ariel D – **I was so glad when you said that you liked it. And I know – with your history with Thunderbirds – that if you like it, it'll be just fine. ;) The boys have to be endearing, whether they're the Tracy boys or not.I couldn't ask for a better beta reader! lol Ready for the next set? ;)

_FAB, all! 'Till next time, Thunderbirds are Go!_


	10. Fly Like a Kite

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_DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to Thunderbirds. This story is for entertainment purposes only, and is not meant to create any profit. Also, any references to NASA in this or other chapters are not meant to reflect the viewpoints or the actions of any people, living or dead, who have worked for the organization. Any similarities are simply coincidence.

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**Fly Like A Kite  
Late July 2015**

"I think I had too much for supper."

Famous last words, Scott thought sadly, glancing at John who was proceeding to turn shades of white and green. _This is going to be interesting._

"As soon as I get the plane at a good altitude, I'll let you have the yoke." Scott flicked a pair of switches, and the plane settled into a cruising velocity. The way that John looked wasn't encouraging though, and Scott wondered how long his brother would last in control of the plane himself.

"Just tell me when," the blonde gasped frankly, one hand on his stomach and the other on his forehead. "I'll be okay. It's just the bumps during take off that do me in."

Raising an eyebrow in amusement, Scott didn't bother to argue. He had seen what had happened to John every time he stepped onto a plane. What he wasn't sure about was whether or not he would grow out of it with time and experience.

Finally satisfied, Scott flipped another control and sent command of the plane over to John's station. "Okay, it's all yours."

"What?" John spat out, and the plane suddenly took a dive when he made no move to grab the controls. "Now? Already?"

Without even thinking, Scott leaned over and took the co-pilot's yoke expertly in his left hand. A quick set of manoeuvres had the plane back on course, but it hadn't been soon enough. John had already paled visibly, and Scott could see him trying to keep in his supper.

Groaning sheepishly, John took the yoke and gave his brother an embarrassed grin. "I knew that."

"Of course you did," replied Scott in a cool tone, trying to fall into the role of instructor. It was not easy. "Now, keep both hands on the yoke. That way you'll have an even flight pattern that doesn't jump to one side or the other."

"Roger."

"The flaps are controlled by the two mechanisms under your feet. You can manipulate one or both to cause the plane to turn sharply or to roll in a line. The yoke also controls the flaps, but it moves them at the same time in order to either ascend or descend the plane, or to bring it into a gentle turn."

"Roger."

Rolling his eyes, Scott gave John a wry look. "You don't have to say 'Roger' all the time. That's only under formal circumstances, not when you're flying with me."

"I want to do this properly," John muttered, keeping his focus on a point past the front windshield. The sun was beginning to drop below the horizon, and the entire was painted a mirage of colours and shades. "They are incredibly picky with everything."

They, Scott did know, were the selection committees at NASA. They would be, in just over two year's time, reviewing his brother and critiquing his abilities. If he had anything to say in the matter, he would make sure that John at least passed the flying exam.

Even if it meant getting messy.

"Okay," he finally said, "now that you've got the feel for the controls-"

"Or not."

"Try easing the plane upward."

John complied, and the plane proceeded to climb at an alarming rate.

"Scott! It's going up! _Really_ up!"

"Down! Go down!" Scott yelled, only to realize that it was probably the worst thing to say. The plane stopped climbing then began to fall in a period of about two seconds. "No! Not down! I take that back!"

The bouncing colours and clouds out the windshield were too much for John to handle. Letting go of the yoke, he let himself be slammed back in his seat by gravity. "I think I'm going to puke."

Cringing against the g-forces, Scott managed to pull the plane up before it fell too far below the cloud line. When the plane finally levelled out, he sighed and triggered the control back to his yoke so that he could re-elevate the craft again. "Let's try that one more time."

* * *

Gordon couldn't hold back an entertained chortle when the plane took a sudden climb towards the sky, then a sudden dip at the ocean, then a sudden climb back into the clouds. He could see the whole exhibition easily from the pool, and he had spent more time watching Scott teach John to fly than actually swimming. 

The plane finally disappeared back up into the thin layer of cirrus clouds that dotted the sky, to a safer height where the winds wouldn't be so chaotic. From his own experience as a passenger in a plane, Gordon knew that it was common sense to fly at a high altitude. Rogue waves or ocean air currents could send even a large plane tumbling, and a small plane like Tracy One was always tossed around by even the lightest of weather patterns.

"This is so horrible, yet it's so incredibly funny," Virgil stated from the deck, turning from the painting that he was working on so that he could watch the turbo-jet take another stomach churning dive after another. "I don't want to watch, yet I keep finding myself paying an incredible amount of attention to it."

Nodding to his brother, "I give them five minutes before we can see them below the cloud line again," Gordon took a quick dip under the water to wet his hair down. He had been above water level for so long that his ginger locks had dried like plaster to his face.

"Honestly Virgil, I don't think there's going to be anything left of him when they get back."

"John?" wondered Virgil, his voice concerned. "Yeah, I think you're right."

"No, not John," Gordon responded lightly, snorting as the plane began a series of rolls that sent it shaking from side to side. "Scott. Just wait till it's your turn to have a go at it - his nerves will be so fried, he'll never step inside a cockpit again!"

"I know, that's what I'm afraid of. And dad really wants me to learn, too." He sighed, and dipped his brush. "I just hope John isn't too sick."

"What are you painting, Virg?" Gordon had pushed himself from the pool, having succumbed to the fact that he likely wouldn't get any swimming done as long as the plane was buzzing overhead. "Can I see it?"

"Just something," Virgil replied secretively, his attention on the canvas. "Something for later."

Gordon trotted along the pool deck, his trunks dripping a trail of water droplets behind him, until he stood beside his brother. He looked at the painting for a long moment, then nodded in appreciation. "Do you know what? I hate you sometimes."

Virgil rolled his eyes and continued working. "Because I can paint?"

"Well, that of course. And because you always come up with really good ideas to start with." He raised his thumb, and gave the picture an appraising glance. "I give this one a Leonardo da Vinci out of ten."

A loud buzz caused both Virgil and Gordon to look skyward, where the family plane was circling slowly around the top of the island.

"Looks like they're coming into land," Gordon observed.

"Looks like it." Glancing around, Virgil's eyes came to rest of the horizon. The sun had finally set, and the entire Pacific was beginning to fade from auburn to amethyst hues. "They'd better get in soon before it gets too dark. I wouldn't mind being up there now, though. I'm sure the view is gorgeous."

* * *

Twilight had faded completely by the time that the plane landed back on the island. The turbo-jet had skidded in a controlled fashion down the main runway, coming to a stop in front of the hanger doors. 

Once the plane was safely stowed for the night, it took about ten minutes for Scott and John to take out the garbage inside. Cleaning up the cockpit was no easy task, and Scott cringed at the thought of telling Virgil what happened to the dash. He and John silently went about the task, methodically wiping whatever they could, leaving the rest so that it could be dealt with at a later time. By the time that they had finished, and had trudged up the stairs towards the lounge, the rest of the Tracy family was nowhere to be seen.

Gazing out at the deserted recreation room with a forlorn look, John shook his head and pushed himself the rest of the way up the stairs. "They probably went to bed."

Not quite convinced, Scott glanced about suspiciously and wondered what his brothers were up to. "Don't think so. They said something about seeing us later, and I don't think they were kidding around." He rubbed a hand through his mop of dark hair, and took another look around the room. "No, something's up."

The two carefully walked to the center of the room, taking care not to trip over furniture in the dull light of the overhead lamps. Pale moonlight drifted into the house and painted shadows across the walls.

After taking several good looks around, John shrugged and turned to Scott. "No one's here. I don't get it."

Before he even had a chance to speak, Scott found himself being pushed onto one of the couches by unknown hands. He heard John yelp, and he could only assume that his brother was receiving the same impolite treatment.

The lights snapped on, and Scott wasn't surprised to be looking directly in his brother Gordon's face.

"Gotcha." The redhead's eyebrow went up in a smug fashion. "And you thought that you would get away."

"Not really," Scott stated dryly, giving Gordon a look of his own. "It's a bit difficult when we're surrounded by a few thousand square miles of water."

"Good point," Virgil laughed from where he stood in front of John. "So I guess we didn't have to go so far as kidnapping you."

"Not really," John echoed, rubbing his forearm tersely. "That was just payback for when I smacked you with the water polo ball last night, wasn't it Virgil?"

"You hit me, not Virgil," interjected Gordon. "I can't believe that you forgot already. I don't think I'm loved."

Trying not to laugh, Scott raised his foot and gave Gordon a light but emphatic kick in the gut. The redhead fell backwards with a shocked expression, his eyes wide.

"Ouch!"

"Serves you right, you villains." Rubbing a hand through his matted hair, Scott snorted in amusement. "Now, aside from scaring the living daylights out of us, what's this all about?"

He wasn't sure whether to be worried or not when Gordon and Virgil's faces became instantly solemn. It was either a sign that they were about to spring the grandest of all jokes ever on him, or that they were actually serious about something for a change. Before he could say anything, however, the two sprinted out of the room and down the main hallway.

It was John who turned to his brother first, his face still slightly pale from the flying. "I think I'm starting to be concerned now."

"Me too." Scott sighed, giving his brother a knowing look. "They're either ready to douse us with glue, or they're going to do something that I can't possibly imagine."

"I'd be more worried about the 'can't possibly imagine'."

"I know. Whenever Virgil's imagination and Gordon's relentless mirth are in the same room I become worried."

The sound of pounding feet signalled to Scott that his brothers were returning. Sure enough, the two of them reappeared in the doorway a moment later, dragging between them a large cloth covered object.

"It's heavy," Gordon complained, trying to keep his side aloft. "You could make them lighter."

"You could actually exercise something other than your mouth," Virgil replied lightly, "and then maybe you'd be able to lift it."

John and Scott traded curious looks, then turned back to the spectacle.

"Can't possibly imagine?"

"Quite possibly."

A loud smack echoed in the room as Gordon and Virgil dropped the canvas stand onto the floor. Clearing his throat, Virgil turned towards the couch and put on the most serious expression that he could muster. "In recognition of the long hours of work that our dearest brother-"

"Can't be me," John whispered smartly, drawing a poke in his side from Scott. "Considering what I did to the plane."

"-has and will be putting out in order to pursue his career, Gordon and I-"

"You mean Virgil and Virgil," Gordon added, laughing when Virgil stopped talking long enough to give him a dirty look.

"Whatever. You were in on this too. Anyway, in recognition of his hard work, we are here to present him with a wonderful parting gift for when it comes time for him to leave this Earth."

His expression part shock and part delight, John laughed quietly, "You're making it sound like I'm going to die or something."

"Well get on with it," Scott snorted, "you're also making this as long as a eulogy."

"Ahem." Rolling his eyes, Virgil reached a hand and grabbed hold of the cloth. "Presenting, to be seen for the first time by the eyes of man, my piece de resistance!" He yanked the cloth with a flourish, letting it fall to the floor with a quiet rustle.

All four Tracy boys sat silently for a long moment, their eyes all upon the painting that stood before them.

The canvas, fifteen inches by twelve inches, was a collage of several images. The background was a sprawling interstellar nebula, spreading out across a vast black void until it intersected with Earth in the corner of the painting. In the top right corner diagonal from the planet was a profile of John. His face was passive, and his eyes looking as though they were taking in the entire realm of the universe.

Wiping mist from his eyes, John leaned forward and simply shook his head. "Virgil . . ."

"That is incredible," finished Scott, his voice unusually restrained. "That is absolutely amazing."

Continuing to shake his head, John didn't speak anymore. He simply sat, with an awed expression on his face, staring at the artwork.

"It's a good thing you're here," Gordon directed at Scott, "because John's doing his 'I'm not speaking' thing again." The redhead grinned, his tone mildly teasing. "Virg, I think you hit big."

"Do you like it?" Virgil asked, walking over to the couch so that he could sit beside his brother. "I had to use your picture from school this year because I couldn't find anything else that really worked. I hope it looks all right."

John opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again and stuck with a nod instead.

"And I don't know if I really captured the essence of the nebula properly," Virgil continued, glancing back at the painting. "I don't paint that much scenery, especially of that kind."

"It's perfect," John finally whispered, his voice hoarse. "I think I'll hang it in my dorm room this fall so that I can look at it when I work."

"I can make you a sign to go with it," Gordon offered, his grin contagious. "The title can be 'Aim for the Stars'!"

"That's a great idea," Scott put in, giving Gordon a thumb up. "And the picture really is wonderful, Virgil. You guys are both wonderful."

"You all are." John looked up and met the gaze of each of his brothers individually. "Really, I know that sometimes I want to beat you-"

"Oh joy." Gordon's face was less than concerned.

"But then you come and do something like this. Know what I want to do now?"

"Beat us because we almost made you cry?" Gordon asked, smirking. "Seriously, John, making you cry isn't that hard."

"I should punch you for that jab, Gordon. But I think a hug will suffice," the blond teen responded, laughing as a pair of tears ran down his face. "You guys are really something."

The other boys willingly obliged, and soon the four of them were piled on top of each other on the couch.

"Someday we're going to get you off of this planet," Virgil finally said, "back to Mars where you belong."

"You rascal." But John didn't fight back. He just smiled and let himself relax into the plush cushions of the couch. "I just hope that I meet their requirements. They're awfully strict."

Gordon snorted. "If they're looking for someone who can mimic the local wildlife, then you would fit in really well."

"And Dad wonders why I have these reoccurring emotional problems."

"Should we tell them?" Scott said suddenly, just remembering something important.

Giving his brother a pained look, John's face became downcast for a moment. "I guess that we're assuming that I'll pass the testing for the job. You guys might be a bit premature with the celebrating. Go ahead and tell Virg, Scott."

His brow wrinkling, Gordon turned to Virgil and shrugged his shoulders. "What's he talking about?"

Virgil, however, seemed to have already figured out what they were talking about. He closed his eyes, and gave a very long and profound sigh. "Gord, how'd you like to learn to clean the plane?"

* * *

**A/N: **So, what's going on here? John, air-sick? When did that come about?

If you're feeling that way – confused – then stick with me and keep reading. ;) For those of you who noticed and remembered John's trip to the barf-bag in A Tracy Family Holiday, kudos! It was there for a reason.

Also, if anyone is curious, you can actually see the painting that Virgil made John. I was bored one day, and worked up a digital composition. If you go to Photobucket and search for darkhelmetj as a username, you'll find my account complete with 'paintings' of most of the brothers. It seems my inner Virgil has been quite busy as of late. :)

_Okay, reviews, reviews!_

Thanks, everyone, who reviewed over Christmas. Things have probably been busy for all of you. I appreciate you taking the time out to leave me a little note. :)

**Ariel D** – John is as eloquent speaking as I wish I could be. ;) That said, I won't sacrifice my emotional sanity for eloquence. Thank You again! I hope my horrible case of than/then didn't wear you down too much.

**zeilfanaat – **I'm so glad to hear such good responses for that speech! I thought maybe it was too emotional, but scientists can be very devoted towards their work. Lol I think Ariel got the message. ;) Now I just have to give the message to my FR muse . . . Thank you!

**andrewjameswilliams – **The boys have no idea what's going on. :) I probably shouldn't say that, but oh well. My take on John's 'astronaut' training is a little different than most people's, and so I hope that you like it. snickers The conversation between Scott and Virgil was inspired by a scene from The Mighty Atom, where Scott stands and tells Virgil what to do while Virgil does all of the work. I couldn't resist poking fun at 'Mr. Do Nothing'. Plus, it hints at the Virgil/Scott working relationship of the future. :) Thanks for the help with the game – if I can get it away from my brother, I'll take another crack at it.

**miz greenleaf –** At least we think he's going to. ;) Thanks for the review!

**pepsemaxke –** Thanks, I hope you had a great Christmas too! :)

So, tune in next time for a scene . . . that doesn't have Scott or John! :o Shocking! Look out for "Boarding School".


	11. Boarding School

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DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to Thunderbird, nor do I intend to make any profit from this story. It is strictly for entertainment purposes only. I just paid my tuition fees, so I don't have any money to give anyone anyway. _

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**Boarding School  
Late August 2015**

"This sucks," Alan Tracy complained for what was surely the tenth time in ten minutes, his baby-featured face crinkling up in a scowl. "I don't want to go to school here."

"You'll go to school here, all right," his father responded sternly, "and you won't give anyone any flack about it either. I haven't heard Virgil and Gordon complain once about it yet, not including when I first told them. You're just lucky that I was able to find a school where you could be in the same building as your brothers."

Jeff could see how much his youngest son had matured over the summer, and he didn't like it one bit. Though still a child in his own right, Alan was beginning to shows signs of wanting to grow up. He often tried to act older than he was, although most of his learned language was obviously inherited from either Gordon or Virgil.

The two stood at the front doors of a large stone boarding school, a structure made of white granite that was laced with long ivy vines. People bustled about, mostly students in stark white and black uniforms, rushing to class at some other point at the school. Their feet crunched upon red and orange oak leaves that drifted down from the heights of the canopy.

"It still sucks," Alan sighed, looking around at the students and wondering how long he would be at the school before he received a good paddling. Though his father had assured him that paddling was no longer acceptable in schools, he doubted that the other kids would care. He glanced forlornly at his suitcase lying on the ground, and scrunched his face up again. "You're leaving me here to die."

"Alan!" Jeff lectured, irritation building on his face. "Stop acting this way. This is hard enough for me as it is. I don't need you piling guilt on top of everything else. At least this way you'll be cared for by adults, and you won't have to worry about keeping house."

"I didn't do the laundry anyway."

"Well, neither did Gordon," the elder Tracy responded, "and he was supposed to. That's exactly the reason that you boys are staying here." Jeff glanced around, then shook his head. "I wonder where he is."

"Where who is," asked Gordon, who had just walked up with Virgil following closely beside him. Both were dressed in the school uniforms, and both carried with them a set of travelling bags. "Alan's got a girlfriend?"

"He said he," Alan muttered darkly, causing Gordon to snicker. "And I don't have a girlfriend."

Holding up a hand to his mouth, Virgil tried to suppress a snort.

"Whatever, Alan," Gordon teased innocently.

"Whatever, Gordon," Jeff mocked sternly, giving his redheaded son a fatherly look. "Leave your brother alone."

Gordon had opened his mouth and was about to respond, when another voice instead called from somewhere amongst the crowd. "M-m-m-mister Tracy, sir!"

Virgil and Gordon turned around as one, and stared blankly at the two individuals that were quickly approaching them. The taller one, a man with brown hair and large glasses, was dragging along with him a young boy that couldn't have been more than Alan's age. The child shared the man's rich hair, and he too wore glasses that were obviously too large for his face.

"Who the heck is that?"

Virgil shook his head, and shrugged. "Must be one of dad's employees or something like that."

Ignoring his sons' comments, Jeff strode forward towards the man, a huge smile plastered onto his face. "James!" He grinned broadly, and took the man's outstretched hand so that he could give it a good shake. "Glad that you could make it."

"I'm g-g-g-glad as well," James stuttered, looking down at the ground as he spoke.

Virgil and Gordon once again traded curious glances.

"How's Fermat," asked Jeff, looking down at the boy that stood below him.

At the mention of the boy's name, both Virgil and Gordon snickered between themselves.

"Oh, he's fine," James answered, patting his son on the shoulder. "Just fine. I-i-i-in fact, he's really excited to be coming here. It's a r-r-r-r-real step up for him, y-y-y-you know."

"I'm glad to help," the older man offered warmly, giving both James and Fermat a reassuring laugh. "A boy like that should be in a school like this. He has a lot of potential."

Still standing where his father had left him, Alan watched the entire display with mixed emotions. First his father had told him that he was sending him to boarding school - which, now that he understood it, he wasn't happy about - and now his father couldn't even say good-bye to him properly! He folded his arms across his chest, and stared in an angry fashion at the glasses-faced boy across the sidewalk.

Fermat, as if sensing Alan's gaze, turned a shade of red and looked down at his feet.

"So who is this, Dad?" Virgil and Gordon had finally approached the trio, and were now being introduced to them.

Jeff pointed at the two in front of him, and then gestured towards his sons. "James, these are two of my sons, Virgil and Gordon. Watch out for Gordon, he causes trouble sometimes." Gordon made a face, which Jeff completely ignored. "Virgil, on the other hand, is quite subdued, and a real blessing in that sense. Boys, this is James Wilson and his son Fermat. James works for me at Tracy Industries, and he'll be helping me with some work back at the island for the next little while."

"Have fun," Gordon murmured, laughing quite loudly on the inside. "The place turned into a pig-sty over the summer."

"I-i-i-i'm sure we'll manage," James replied, though his voice was a bit unsure. "Jeff has told me a g-g-g-great deal about you boys." He glanced past Jeff, his eyes finally settling on the youngest. "That m-m-m-must be Alan back there."

Hearing James' words quite clearly, Alan stuck out his tongue and turned his back to the group.

His face turning slightly red, Jeff raised an eyebrow in mild irritation. "I'm sorry about this, James. He's been in a horrendous mood all morning."

"I-i-i-it's all right, Jeff. Fermat," he pushed his son forward, "w-w-w-why don't you go say hi to him."

"Oh, that'll be great," Gordon snorted, poking Virgil in the side.

"Ow."

"It's true, though. Alan's being a demon child."

Jeff rolled his eyes, and turned to face his older children. "Don't you two start. Besides," he glanced down at his watch, "it's time for classes to start. You'd better hurry in and find out where you're supposed to be."

"Y-y-y-you too, Fermat." James bent down, and wrapped his son in a tight hug. "Y-y-y-you can talk to Alan later."

Returning the hug, Fermat nodded and quickly sprinted up the stairs into the school, dragging his large backpack behind him.

Unable to contain his laughter any longer, Gordon began to giggle in an uncontrollable manner. When Jeff gave him a bad look, he simply shrugged and grinned. "What can I say?"

"He's very cute," Virgil interrupted, in an obvious attempt to save his brother from a verbal beating. "A really adorable little boy. Well," he gave James a polite was of the hand. "It was good meeting you. We should be going." He unceremoniously grabbed Gordon by the collar, and began to drag him up the stairs and into the building.

"Boys!"

Virgil stopped for a moment, his face falling a bit when he remembered that his father would be leaving. "Yeah?"

"Take care of each other." Jeff's voice wavered slightly, though his smile overcame any difficulty that he had with the words. "Okay? And if you need anything at all, just give either Scott or me a call. We're just a quick plane-ride away."

"Just a plane-ride," Virgil echoed back, nodding slowly. "And, if we really need to, we can hop on a rented plane and I can fly us back home."

"You've got it. Heck, if you want, just buy the plane to begin with." Sighing, Jeff held up his hand and gave a quick wave. "Take care, boys. I'll see you at Christmas."

"Bye, dad," Gordon muttered softly, his usually loud and boisterous voice nearly inaudible. "See you later."

The two boys turned, and continued into the wooden entrance of the school. It was not long before they disappeared completely into the throng.

Finally, Jeff walked over to Alan, who had parked himself in a corner of the stairwell. He reached out his hands, and placed them gently on his son's shoulders. "You be careful, Alan. But have fun, and remember that your brothers are here to watch out for you."

Though he didn't turn around, the pain in Alan's voice was plain. "I guess so."

"I've got to go now," Jeff finished, giving his son a quick hug. "Just remember what I told you on the way here." He let go, and slowly backed away down the stairs. "I'm not really leaving, Alan. I'll always be there for you."

Alan didn't answer. Instead, he silently took his bag and walked into the front doors of the school.

Jeff Tracy stood for a long moment, staring at the wooden doorway, wondering if he had just made the biggest mistake of his life. He honestly didn't know if the school would be any better for his children. He could only hope that it was.

"M-m-m-mister Tracy."

James' voice woke Jeff from his momentary stupor, sending him spinning around to face the bespectacled engineer.

"Hmm?"

His face reddening ever so slightly, James shrugged as if in apology. "I-i-i-if it makes you feel better, I-i-i-i," he stopped, looked at his feet, then finally looked back up at Jeff. "I think you're being a wonderful father." The words came out completely clear, without a sign of stutter in them at all. "I wish I could do the same for my son."

It took a moment for James' words to truly sink in. When they finally did, Jeff nodded slowly, blinking in order to hold back the moisture in his eyes. "Thank you, James. I'm glad to hear that. But I think Fermat would argue your second point."

The remark was far from being lost on James. "T-t-t-thank you, Mister Tracy."

* * *

**A/N**: I had a huge choice to make when writing this chapter: should Fermat be/not be included in the story? I decided that yes he should be. I know some people are annoyed by his presence in the movie, but I think he adds a nice chemistry to the family and I couldn't leave him out. I hope that you all like him by the time the next two chapters are finished. I just couldn't resist. :) 

Yikes! School starts and my muse decides to fire up again. I'm pleased to announce that I have three chapters left to write for the entire story! Also, I have a separate story planned for when this one is finished. I can't seem to put my finger on it, but _something_ about the word 'hydrofoil' begs for more than a one-chapter ditty. ;)

(On a side note, I'd like to do a quick story with Virgil and Gordon at school that would fill in the time just after this chapter. If anyone is really interested in that, just let me know and I'll appease my muse when I have time. :) )

Before I forget I have to say a _huge_ thank-you to my beta reader Ariel D . I don't know what was wrong with me when I wrote this chapter (and the two after it for that matter) but I think I took a bag of commas and chucked them randomly at the screen. Thank-you so much for wading through the mess and picking up the trash! ;)

_Anywho, reviews, reviews!_

A HUGE thank-you is due for everyone that dropped me a note for Snowday. I'm glad that you all liked the story, and I'm especially touched that you're all taking an active part in the efforts to help out the tsunami victims. Somehow I wasn't worried about the reviewers. ;) I just really hope that all of the unknown readers out there take some of it to heart!

**ladc** – I originally had it written so that John was fine during his flight, but then I realized that for later stuff to work his recovery couldn't be that simple. The exact reasons for his airsickness are given in the next chapter that he appears in. _snickers_ I loved Lex Shrapnel, though he's a little 'bigger' in body than I pictured John to be. Ah well, we can't have it all I guess. ;) Thanks for the review, I'm glad to have you back! And, thanks for reviewing Snowday. _snickers again_ Those mathematical'angels' are out to get me. ;)

**Marblez** – lol I'm Canadian, and I don't even know if we _have_ boarding schools here. ;) I suppose I should have called it Private School. I'd offer you pointers, but I think some marvellous Americans have already offered their help. ;) They'll know it better than me anyway. Thanks for the support!

**thunderbirdgirl** – Thank you so much! The Gordon one is my fave, because I had the best pics to work with. I have one of Jeff finished, I just have to chuck it up to photobucket. Hope you like the story as much as the pics. ;)

**zeilfanaat** – I practically channelled Scott and John in that scene. My sis and I took a Tracy bros. quiz, and I ended up being Scott while she was Virgil. Sometimes though I act like John and she acts like Gordon. I just had to imagine one of our conversations, and Thunderbirds were set to go! :) Also, thanks for sharing with me what Holland (I think that's right? If not, shoot me.) is doing for the tsunami. It lifts my heart. :D

**miz greenleaf** – Out of curiosity, have you seen the original series? In it, Virgil would occasionally be painting something, or playing his white baby grand. I find him to be interesting to write because of that. I actually have a friend that's like a modern version of him, smart and extremely talented on the piano. :)

**mcj** – I'm glad that you enjoyed it. :) _Fly Like aKite_ really didn't have a lot to do with the plot, but I wanted to have a scene that showed the four older boys interacting as a family without any 'tragic' angst. There's enough of that in some later chapters that I was in desperate need of something lighter! :D Once again, thanks for your kind words, on this and Snowday.

* * *

Okay, that's enough for now. Catch the next episode, a short little ditty called _Alan, Meet Fermat,_ coming soon to a fanfic near you. (Gads, I must stop watching Saturday morning cartoons . . .) 

_FAB!_


	12. Alan, Meet Fermat

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DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to Thunderbirds, and no profit is intended to be made. This story is for entertainment purposes only._

* * *

**Alan, Meet Fermat  
October 2015**

Alan Tracy, carrying with him a large tray of cafeteria food, unceremoniously placed himself down on a stool in the furthest reaches of the lunchroom. He had no desire to sit with the other students. In fact, he was hoping that if his behaviour was bad enough the headmaster might be inclined just to send him home.

So far his idea hadn't worked very well. He had been given detention three times, had been made to write lines twice, and had even been yelled at by the headmaster himself. But he hadn't been sent home.

Glaring at his bologna sandwich, Alan couldn't help thinking that someone was conspiring against him to make his life miserable. He had only been at the school for a little over a month, and he already hated it.

A part of Alan's mind couldn't quite believe that - there had been things that he had enjoyed doing, like when the boys had been taken to a nearby racetrack to study how cars drive at high speeds. It hadn't been anything complicated, and the thought of being around racecars had been enough to keep his attention completely. The headmaster had even commented on how well that Alan Tracy boy had behaved himself at the track.

It wasn't that the school was bad, Alan finally decided. It was how he had been dumped there so unceremoniously by his own father that made it seem that way.

Even though Virgil and Gordon - who had somehow jumped right into the atmosphere of the place - kept tabs on him quite regularly, they were not always there. He had always depended on his brothers for company, and he realised quite plainly that there was no time at boarding school for him to be alone with them.

Alone.

Alan shook his head and bit into the sandwich, wondering why his dad couldn't at least send him to a school that served something like meatballs for lunch.

Looking up to reach for his milk, he noticed that there was an extra shadow across the tray that wasn't caused by his body. He turned his head, and looked into the face of a brown haired boy with glasses.

"H-h-h-hi."

Alan could not contain an eye-roll. "What do you want?"

"C-c-c-c-c-c . . ." Unable to even finish the sentence, Fermat simply shrugged and pointed wordlessly at the stool beside Alan.

Alan had little to say to Fermat. It had been two months since he had seen the son of James Wilson trudge up the steps of the school, and he had thought that perhaps he had avoided him completely aside from seeing him in class. But it looked as though Fermat was either very stubborn, or simply very lonely.

Scoffing at the idea, Alan turned back to this sandwich. Fermat could go be lonely someplace else. "Why do you have to sit here? There's tables over there."

The brown haired boy's eyes became slightly wider, and he backed away slowly from the table. He glanced once at Alan, then turned and slowly walked over to one of the other empty seats.

"Weird," Alan muttered, stealing another look over at Fermat, who had finally brought out his lunch and was munching away at it. "Really weird."

Then Alan's eyes locked on the boy's lunch, which had obviously been delivered from someplace out of the school. The soup and the muffins looked very inviting, but it was too late to go and try to trade them for something else. He had already told Fermat to go and sit somewhere else.

Sighing, Alan looked forlornly at his half-eaten sandwich. "Why does stuff always happen to me?"

* * *

After classes that day, Alan took the time out to grab a campus pass so that he could go walking outside somewhere. He hated being stuck in the building too long - it had such a stuffy feeling to it that he almost couldn't breathe.

The leaves had begun to fall from the trees and were finally lying on the ground in large piles where the groundkeeper had raked them. The air was still crisp with a hint frost. In fact, it was much colder than Alan was used to for the fall. His old school had been further south, and had not been prone to harsh winds and snow in the fall months. During the winter months snow had been present in plentiful amounts, but cold weather in the fall had been unusual.

Flopping himself moodily in front of a tree, Alan sat for a long moment and simply stared up at the branches. It didn't take long for him to decide that sitting was boring, and it didn't take much more for him to decide that the tree was all right for climbing.

He had set his book bag down, grabbed a branch, and was about to climb up when a quiet voice behind him chirped up and said, "Watch out."

Alan nearly fell from the low height that he was at. He turned, and glared in amazement at Fermat Wilson, who stood serenely behind him with his own books held clumsily in his arms.

"What do you want?"

Turning slightly red, Fermat pointed at the tree. "T-t-t-t-t-"

"I know it's a tree!" Alan groaned, going back to his climbing. "You don't have to tell me that!" He stopped again when he felt a small but strong hand pulling on his shirt. "Geeze, dork, let me go!"

Fermat let go, but he didn't stop staring at Alan with large worried eyes. "T-t-t-t-t-"

"What about the tree," Alan finally asked, realising that he would never get anywhere unless he got rid of Fermat. "It's a tree, stupid. There's nothing wrong with it."

Shaking his head, Fermat reached up a hand and traced his finger along a crack that was barely visible in the bark. The valley ran along the entire length of the branch that Alan had been trying to climb up on.

"Yeah, what about it?"

Alan's eyes nearly jumped out of their sockets when part of the branch came away in Fermat's hand. The underside of the bark was discoloured and moulded and was rotting away. It was obvious that, had Alan put his full weight on it, it would have broken away from the trunk.

"Uh." The blond-haired Tracy rubbed his head with his hand, unsure of what to say. "Thanks. But," he continued, a bit more sure, "I don't owe you one or anything like that."

Fermat shrugged, and let the wood in his hand fall onto the ground. "Okay."

So he can talk, Alan thought, confirming in his mind that Fermat had indeed been the one to yell 'watch out'. Still, he convinced himself, it didn't mean anything. The last thing that he wanted was someone like Fermat following him around.

"See you later," he muttered, grabbing his bag and pushing past Fermat so that he was on the walking path towards the school.

* * *

The next day found Alan once again sitting alone in the corner of the cafeteria. Only, when Fermat once again approached his table, he didn't ask Alan to sit down. He simply threw his lunch on the table and plopped himself down right beside the very startled Tracy boy.

Alan's mouth was half enclosed about his sandwich, but he still managed to spit out a half-hearted hello.

"Hi," Fermat replied quietly, pulling out a carton of Chinese food from his lunch bag. He opened the box and quickly set to work on the food inside.

The awkwardness after only a few seconds was too much for Alan to handle. He finally threw his sandwich onto the table and turned to stare at Fermat. "Why do you keep following me?"

"Are you going to tell me to leave?"

Alan's eyes narrowed slightly. "Maybe. How come you can talk? Was it a joke before?"

Fermat turned a deep pink and shrugged defensively. "N-n-n-no. I j-j-j-just don't like talking to people, that's all."

Nodding as if to say 'fair enough', Alan shrugged also and went back to his sandwich. He honestly believed that if he ignored Fermat, then Fermat would disappear. He was half finished eating when Fermat spoke again.

"You made a mistake on question ten."

"What?" Alan spit out a mouthful of turkey. "Were you looking?"

"Kind of." Fermat poked at a chicken ball with his fork. "You looked upset, I thought maybe you were having trouble."

"I don't have trouble," snapped Alan. "I'm not stupid. I just hate math." He was silent for a moment. "Why am I talking to you?"

"Y-y-y-you don't talk to anybody else."

Amidst his glowering, Alan had to admit that Fermat was right. "How do you know my dad?" The question had been on his tongue ever since Fermat had walked up.

Fermat didn't say anything at first. He kept poking at his food with his fork, until the bean sprouts looked like little more than squished tofu. "Y-y-y-your dad paid for me to come here."

A snort escaped Alan's mouth. "Don't your mom and dad work?"

Dropping his fork into the container, Fermat let his head fall to his chest. He muttered something, which Alan was only able to catch half of.

"What'd you say?"

"M-m-m-mom died."

Alan's stomach nearly hit the floor when he heard the words. He didn't even know what to say back - he felt horrible about bringing it up, when the words brought back some very faint memories in his own mind about when his own mother had died.

"That's cool," he finally said, drawing an incredulous stare from Fermat.

"W-w-w-what?"

"I said 'that's cool'." He forced a smile. "You know, all right? It's all right with me."

Fermat didn't respond right away. "W-w-w-what about my s-s-s-stutter," he finally asked, looking a bit worried.

"Whatever." Alan shrugged. "I don't care." He looked down at his lunch, then sighed. "It's no big deal. You're not the only person out there with crappy parents."

"My Dad's not crappy!" Fermat looked completely horrified at just the thought. "He's not."

"Well my Dad is," Alan muttered, "he stuck me here just so he could move his work to our new house. He doesn't care about me. Your dad did that too - he's coming to our house. Maybe he doesn't care about you."

In response, Fermat simply shrugged and continued to hang his head. "My Dad does."

"Whatever," Alan snapped back, only he wasn't really mad at Fermat. The mere mention of his father had sent a stream of adrenaline into his veins.

There was a long pause before either of them spoke again.

"Why's your name Fermat?"

Shrugging, Fermat looked down as his cheeks tinted nicely. "He was a French mathematician."

"Fine."

"Why's your name Alan?"

It was Alan's turn to look mildly embarrassed. "He was an astronaut." Glancing one last time at his sandwich, Alan lofted the food in his hand and chucked it towards the nearest garbage can. The bread and balonga landed squarely in the container with a quiet thump. "Dad named all of us after astronauts. Guess he thought it'd be cool or something."

There was another pause.

"I could help you with the math."

Alan snorted. "Yeah, an' what do you want me to do for you?" It was a really unnecessary question, though. He already knew perfectly well what Fermat wanted, and a small part of him was - for whatever reason - willing to reserve the seat beside him at lunchtime. Weighing the two in his mind, Alan decided that having help with math would at least give him more free time to do other stuff, and was subsequently the lesser of the two evils. "Okay, fine."

A huge grin split Fermat's face, going nearly from ear to ear. "G-g-g-g-g-"

"I know," Alan interrupted, stopping Fermat before the younger boy stuttered himself into a corner. "It's great."

* * *

**A/N -**

Gah! _Ducks Matrix style as bullet goes by._ I was expecting it. ;) I can't believe myself – I remember mixing up Denmark and Danish (they're not even both _countries_ for goodness sakes) on my last social studies test. If you go back and look at last chapter it's actually been changed. I noticed the mistake almost immediately after I submitted it, but ffnet took its own sweet time editing it. :) I plead for forgiveness. ;)

I discovered Fermat the mathematician in Calculus class last semester. :) My professor was giving me the oddest look when I started snickering. I couldn't help it. I'm just easily amused.

_Review time! Wow, there are so few . . ._

I guess that's what I get for posting so soon after the last chapter. Oh well, I wanted to get this set of two out there. :)

**zeilfanaat** – I'm sure that you still shoot better than Scott Tracy of TV fame does. ;) Honestly, nothing made me laugh more than him getting the gun shot from his hand in "The Uninvited". I'm glad to hear that Gordon and Virgil were in character! They seemed to be quite the tight-nit pair in the show. I know people always talk about Scott and Virgil being close, but really that's only when they're on missions. Virgil and Gordon are always hanging together. Also, I've noticed that it's Scott who hangs around with John when he's down for a break. Interesting huh? :)

Thanks for the final tally for _Holland._ ;) That's absolutely incredible.

**thunderbirdgirl** – Yeah, I'm working on an Alan one. I just can't find some pictures that I like. I'm not looking for anything really specific, just images that will work into a nice composition. I had trouble with Virgil too. That's why he's got paintings on his. I wanted to do a performance hall built with engineering schematics, but it proved too hard to find pictures. _sighs_ One of these days I'm going to tell someone that I live in Cambodia instead of Canada . . .

**miz greenleaf** – I caught the original series when it was on re-runs during the early nineties. I actually have the "Tracy Island Playset" that people always joke about trying to get. It's in my basement somewhere. :) I haven't actually seen all of the episodes, though! :o I think I missed three of them that my Mom accidentally didn't tape for me. I'm glad that you like Fermat! :) I'm hoping that he'll simply add to the story and won't detract from it.

**Ariel D** – _blushes_ Thank you for everything! I can't wait to send you the next set. ;) Gosh, there's a doozy of a chapter in there. I think it's my favourite of the set so far. Oh, and bologna plus baloney definitely equals (in my mind) balogna. ;) Gads, I work at a deli. You'd think I'd know how to spell the stuff that I sell. I looked today and it is bologna here. ;)

* * *

Anyway, onto the next chapter! It was supposed to be out for the holiday season, but "Christmas Secrets" will be coming as soon as I've thoroughly hacked at it with an axe of editing a few times.

_FAB!_


	13. Christmas Secrets

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DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to Thunderbirds, nor do I intend to make any profit from this story. It is strictly for entertainment purposes only. _

* * *

**Christmas Secrets  
December 2015**

The local airfield, though generally busy at all times of the day, was very quiet for once. Hangers lay empty, and most commercial aircraft were already en route to some destination, ferrying thousands of people home for Christmas.

Though it was quiet, it was not quite empty. To the far side of the private tarmac, four boys stood, bags of luggage lumped around them on the ground.

His face split into a huge grin, Gordon Tracy gave his brother Virgil a knowing look. "Just wait until we get home - I will eat every ounce of cookies and cake that Dad keeps at the place."

Virgil snorted, noting his brother's less than wire-thin figure. "It doesn't look like you've starved any."

Gordon grinned again. "Not really. I'd just love to get my hands on something other than a bologna sandwich for lunch."

"I like bologna."

"No you don't, Alan," the ginger-haired Tracy responded immediately, biting his brother's retort in the bud. "That's why you trade lunches every second day with Fermat."

Fermat, who was protectively clutching what appeared to be a bag of calculators and math utensils, ducked his head and didn't say anything.

His face reddening, Alan folded his arms across his chest and glared at his brother. "Yeah?"

It was obvious to Gordon that he was in over his head, especially if one compared the sizes of the two boys. Though he was not quite Gordon's height, Alan was of comparable body mass. At nine years of age, he was already showing signs of growing to be taller than even Scott.

Laughing at his brother's predicament, Virgil wisely backed away from the two. "I think I'll just stand over here and guard the luggage."

"Wimp," Gordon muttered, though he understood that Virgil wanted to stay out of a fight if at all possible. "Your fingers won't get hurt that badly if you fight."

"It's not you that has a recital next month."

Gordon laughed and took a pretend swing at Virgil's face with his fist. "Prissy piano player."

Rolling his eyes, Alan let his arms drop to his sides. "You're so geeky, Virgil."

Virgil, who gave Alan a mild glare, echoed the eye-roll. "Hey, do you actually know what geeky means? Or do you just say it because it sounds impressive?"

"Yeah," Alan argued loudly, less than convinced of his words.

"Which one?" Virgil sighed in exasperation.

"I'm glad that you're hear to drill him about grammar." Gordon gave a shrug. "I'm not exactly passing English. Let him say that he wants."

"Just wait until Dad hears about that one," Virgil muttered, giving his brother a knowing look. "I'm sure he'll care enough to make up for it."

Gordon's face clouded over for a moment, a look of disappointment shattering his normally jovial features. "Yeah, I know he will."

"I'm passing English," Alan put in proudly. "I have an eighty five in the class."

"Good for you," Virgil replied sharply, saving Gordon from having to answer. "And if you stopped acting like an idiot so that you get detention every week, then maybe you would actually make the honour roll."

A low buzzing sound interrupted their bantering. The three boys looked up in time to see a small turbo-prop drop from the cloud line, and float gracefully down onto the runway. Its tires dropped from the fuselage, and the plane glided to a stop only a few feet from the Tracy children.

"Whoa," Fermat gasped, obviously impressed with the aeronautic display.

"Scott, I think," guessed Virgil, wondering if his brother was trying to show off again.

"Don't know." Gordon squinted at the plane, and tried to see into the cockpit. "It's hard to tell. It sure looked like something he would do, though."

When the side door opened, all four of the boys turned in anticipation. When John Tracy stepped out, his expression a combination of nausea and pride, all three of the Tracy kids simultaneously dropped whatever bags they were holding and ran to greet him.

"John!"

"Hey, man!"

"How many times did you throw up?"

"Whoa!" John held up his hands, still grinning widely, and jumped the rest of the way down the ladder. "One thing at a time. First," he glanced at each of his brothers, "hello, hello, and hello." He took special time to thump Fermat on the shoulder, giving the cowering boy a reassuring smile. "Glad to have you onboard, Fermat. Second, hey man to you to, Gordon. Third," he shrugged weakly, "I didn't throw up, Alan, if you really want to know. But thank you for asking."

Alan laughed, and reached over to join Gordon and Virgil in their backslapping. "Cool."

"When did you get it?"

"Last week," John replied, giving Gordon a hearty whack in return for the wallop that he had just received. "Normally they require more hours that what I worked up over the summer, but my instructor was impressed with how I could handle the jet. She said that I'd be okay as long as I didn't short circuit the controls with my vomit."

Alan's nose crinkled up in disgust. "Ew."

"Her words, not mine." He nodded in satisfaction, then walked to and grabbed some of the luggage bags. "Here, I'll give you guys a hand. I want to try and get home before dark. Trying to find the island after sunset is a real pain."

Between the five of them they were able to quickly drag the bags into the plane. Once Virgil, Gordon, Fermat, and Alan were strapped in, John released the brake and taxied the plane out onto the main runway.

"Tracy One, requesting clearance for take-off on runway five."

The speaker in the cockpit crackled for a moment, then cleared as the tower made contact. "Clearance granted, Tracy One. Have a good flight, and Merry Christmas."

John smiled, and prepared to key the throttle. "Thanks, tower, and Merry Christmas to you too."

In the passenger section, Virgil and Gordon were trying desperately to see around the chair and into the cockpit. "You in there, John?" Virgil pushed himself forward, then winced as the restraining harness locked in place and pulled him back to his seat. "I can't quite see you."

"Of course I am," John replied dryly. "Where else would I be?"

"Just checking," Virgil responded lightly, "in case you were in the back throwing up in the toilet."

John raised his eyebrow, and in his mind he weighed two very distinct evils - not getting back at Virgil, or making himself sick for the rest of the flight. One was definitely the lesser of the two.

"It's bound to happen anyway," he decided with a determined smirk. "You boys strapped in?"

The plane began to pick up speed as it rolled down the runway.

A chorus of 'yeahs' echoed from the back.

"Okay then, hold on." Grinning ferociously, John pulled back on the yolk as hard as he could. The plane lurched almost straight upwards, sending him and his brothers backward into the seats.

Screaming in surprise, Virgil grabbed onto the armrests and closed his eyes as the inertia of the plane slammed him into the backrest. "John, you're gonna stall the engine!"

Subdued laughter drifted in from the open cockpit.

"We're gonna die!" Fearing the worst, Alan covered his face and buried his head in his hands. Fermat also ducked his head, which seemed to disappear into his thighs.

The plane continued to climb, and even bucked from side to side as it crashed through several pockets of turbulence all at once.

Gordon didn't bother to yell at his brother; he simply swore as loud as he could, one curse upon another, and didn't stop swearing until the plane finally levelled out at a decent altitude.

The clouds were now passing by the plane at a horizontal angle, splitting the fuselage in half so that clear sky was visible through the upper half of the windows. Any turbulence was well below; the plane had jumped upwards several hundred feet in a matter of seconds.

Finally deciding that it was safe, Virgil and Alan opened their eyes and looked about. Luggage was strewn across the back of the plane, and several bags had fallen open to reveal clothing and underwear. Gordon's swimming trunks were draped ceremoniously on the door handle of the back hatch, swinging about like a flag on display.

His head popping up from his legs, Fermat reached up a hand to right his glasses. Something akin to the word 'horrifying' escaped his lips, though no sound actually left his mouth.

Gordon, catching his breath, turned to look at Virgil. His face was red, almost the colour of his hair, though the very tips of his cheekbones were a stark white colour similar to ivory, causing his freckles to stand out quite plainly. All in all, he was quite a mess. "I'm gonna kill him." He glanced around, saw the swim trunks, then moaned in horror. "I'm gonna kill him."

"No you won't, it was too funny." Against his better judgement, Virgil shook his head and gave Gordon a light slap on the shoulder. "You should see your face." He snorted. "You look like a spotted fox."

A profound sigh escaped Gordon's lips, and the teen intentionally let his body relax in the cushioning. "It was so not funny. He nearly killed me."

The horrible sound of someone retching interrupted Gordon from his complaining. He glanced at Virgil, then over at Alan who had finally crawled up from his seat. Realising that it was none of them who were sick, he came to the final obvious conclusion.

"John," Gordon called, as he made his way up the aisle and to the cockpit, "you okay?" Peaking around the corner, Gordon caught sight of his brother just as John was plunging his head down in a barf bag.

"Guess not," Virgil sighed, from his position beside Gordon in the doorway. "Want me to fly?"

A gurgled muttering could be heard from somewhere inside the bag. "Please do." An ensuing slurp and splat resounded in the cockpit. "Please."

His nose wrinkling in a manner very similar to Alan's, Virgil stepped forward delicately and tried to avoid stepping in the trails of vomit that were on the floor. "I see you missed the bag. You should really keep it up front with you."

John coughed from his seat. "I need more practice with that manoeuvre."

"The climb and fall?" Gordon couldn't resist the temptation to get one final jab in at his brother. "Or the drop and barf?"

"I could practice on you," John managed to put in, bringing his face up from the bag long enough to glare at Gordon before another round of nausea set in. "How about that?"

"Nah, I think I'll pass."

Meanwhile, Virgil had settled down at the co-pilot's station and had brought the plane onto a more satisfactory course. "Geeze, the way you had us going, we were heading out to Alaska." He shuddered, and with a flip of the switch set the plane to auto pilot. "Why'd you do that if it makes you sick?"

"It's not supposed to anymore," the blond-haired teen sighed. The nausea had finally subsided, and he was once again sitting upright in his seat. "Dad seems to think it's all psychological, like a phobia, and that I'm bringing it on myself. The really crazy stuff still makes me sick, but it's been a while since I've actually thrown up. That's why I had the bag behind me."

Wiping the sweat from his face, John gave one last cough, decided he was finished, and proceeded to tie up the bag.

"That's gross," Alan commented, his blond hair whisking around the edges of the door. "Really gross."

"I need to get rid of this . . ." Still not ready to give up in his attempt to get back at his brothers, John casually tossed the tied up barf bag in Gordon's direction. "Here, chuck this for me."

"Gross!" Gordon yelled, catching the bag with one hand and holding it in front of him as though it were contaminated. "John!"

"That's my name," John laughed, glancing over at Virgil as if to threaten him too with a bag of vomit. "Don't wear it out."

* * *

Everything was ready for dinner by the time that Tracy One glided in gracefully onto the island runway. Scott had already arrived at home hours earlier, and between him and his father they had managed to work up quite a feast. Meanwhile, while they were cooking, James Wilson had dragged out the plates and silverware and had done an excellent job of setting the table. 

Jeff was waiting to greet his children at the door. When they finally bounced up the stairs into the main dining area, he grabbed each of them in turn and wrapped them in a tight hug. Fermat, anxious to get to his own father, ran past the mess and into James' waiting arms.

"L-l-l-look at you," James smiled, rubbing his son on the head. "You've g-g-g-grown so much!"

"Not really," Fermat muttered, though he was so happy to see his father that he wasn't really up to arguing the point.

"Ahem." Everyone turned to look at Scott, who was resting his arms across the backrest of the head chair. "I think we're all ready to eat right about now."

"Maybe you're ready," Virgil laughed, "but we just got home. What if we want to talk to dad some more?" When Scott's face turned anxious, Virgil snorted and held up a hand. "Geeze, Scott, we're just joking. We're ready."

"Definitely," Gordon whispered as they moved to sit down. "Dad hasn't asked me about my report card yet."

"Lucky."

Once they were all seated, with Jeff at the head of the table and James and Fermat beside him, Jeff placed his hands on the plate in front of him and bowed his head. The rest of the boys followed suite.

"John," Jeff began, his voice unusually hoarse, "would you like to do the honours?"

It was not even out of favouritism that John was asked; he was the only one that was able to stay composed when doing the Christmas prayer. Simple courtesy forced Jeff to ask every year.

"Lord, let us remember the things that we have been given. Let us not dwell on that which we do not have, but look instead to the future and those things that we will come to us in time. Most of all," John's voice became barely a whisper, "let us remember that which we have lost, that was precious to us and will not be returned with the passage of time." He closed his eyes. "Let us give thanks."

* * *

Glancing around at the rest of his family, Virgil bowed his head and closed his eyes. Christmas was supposed to be a time of reflection for the family, yet he somehow always ended up looking further back than he was probably supposed to. He believed praying always sounded better if it were directed at a person rather than the air, and there was only one logical recipient. He wasn't an overly religious person, though of any of his brothers Virgil alone was open about his beliefs. He had stated it many times to them: it didn't matter to him whether or not his mother could hear him. To him it was the thought, the effort on his part to keep his mother involved in the family, that meant the most. 

_Hey Mom, it's been a while since I've talked to you. I guess that a lot's happened since last Christmas, but you probably already know it all. I broke up with Heather in June, things just weren't working out well between us. I keep telling myself that I won't be like Scott and John, but the older I get, the more I feel like I'm an adult in a teen world. Heather and I just didn't see eye to eye anymore. _

_The new school's been okay. I miss my friends, but this way I don't have to worry about helping around the house. And it's taken a load off of John's shoulders. I hate to see him cranky. It's just not like him._

_Don't tell Dad - not like you can - but I'm thinking about going into engineering when I graduate. Weird, huh? All of the work that I've put into my art and music, and I've decided that tinkering with stuff is more fun. I found that out when Dad let me help him re-build the engine for Tracy One._

_I'm actually considering asking dad if his engineer friend could take me on as an apprentice. I think I could apply for a practical education course, and they might let him teach me. It's worth a try, at least. I just don't want to spend four years hooked up in college - not like John. I want to do something now, and maybe that's the way. If I'm lucky, I'll prove good enough that maybe Dad would be willing to hire me on with the company._

_Dad's really proud because I have my pilot's license. I think he's hoping that I'll try and join NASA like John wants to. It probably won't happen. I don't like space that much. I hope he's not too disappointed._

_I guess that's it, Mom. Hope you're still watching us, and that you haven't got too tired or too mad at us yet. _

_Love you always.

* * *

_

Feeling slightly uncomfortable about the entire ordeal, Gordon submitted and bowed his head. He had always been told by his father to 'be honest', to reflect back on how the year had gone and what he had done. For Gordon, Christmas was a time of guilt when he was forced to silently admit everything that he had done wrong. There were happy moments for sure, but more often than not they were overshadowed by his memories of punishments and lectures. It for that reason, perhaps, that Gordon's thoughts inevitably turned to his mother. He could remember how much he and his brothers had confided in her when she was alive, and it seemed right that, if he had to confess to anyone, it should be to his mother.

Gordon snickered quietly but kept the full laugh to himself. His mother had always had a way with her children, using guilt against them to make them reveal their secrets to her. He still carried that feeling with him. It made him to do at Christmas what he would never dream of doing any other time of the year. He didn't care much for prayer – though he liked to think that his mother could hear him - but he understood how much Christmas meant to his father.

Some traditions had to be maintained, and some feelings were too strong to ever vanish completely.

_Hey, it's that time of year again. Tired of watching us? Probably. I guess I've been giving everyone a lot of grief. This year, though, I'm trying to behave better. Dad told me last month that my behaviour 'wasn't appreciated'. And I got another 'lecture' earlier this year. I swear, Mom, John nearly killed me. _

_I never thought that I could do anything for our family, other than make everyone laugh. I guess I was wrong. Funny, huh, how everyone needs me to be serious for once. I wish you were here, Mom. I really need you. I'm not up to this. I'm just not ready._

_I guess I can tell you this, because you won't be telling Dad. School isn't going so well. I'm really trying, just like you always said to, but it just isn't working. I'm just not good at it like John and Virgil. Even Alan has higher marks than me. What am I supposed to be good at? Dad wants me to do something with my life, but all I've done is fail my classes so far this year. I wish there were something I could do, something that I'm good at._

_I won the regionals last month in swimming. I hope that you saw it. Swimming is kind of worthless to Dad in the long run, but it makes me feel good. I actually am good at something! The coach even said that I might have a shot at the Olympics in a few years! _

_Maybe I can become a lifeguard or something. I don't know if there are any jobs out there for scuba divers or not. I like doing that. Living on a tropical island has its perks._

_Thanks for listening, mom. I don't want to tell anybody else. They think I think school is just a big game. They think I don't care. I'm just a disgrace to the family. But I'll keep trying, I promise. _

_See you, Mom.

* * *

_

Unsure of what to do, Alan bowed his head and tried to look as though he was busy. The rest of his family was already deep in thought, and he couldn't even think of anything to say. At least he had a starting point. The previous Christmas he had bothered Gordon about the prayer so much that the redhead had finally sat him down and explained it to him.

"_The idea," Gordon had said, "is to try and figure out where you screwed up and fix it." _

_Alan had observed that his father had always told them to think of good things. _

"_I guess," Gordon had laughed, "or we'll all be awfully depressed after. Man, I always feel so guilty when I do mine."_

"_Who am I supposed to talk to?"_

"_I dunno." The redhead had shrugged then. "I talk to Mom. Guess it's habit, Al."_

"_She can't hear us."_

"_Yeah she can."_

Alan shrugged mentally, and decided that he could at least try what Gordon had suggested. It was better than sitting around doing nothing.

_This is so stupid. I don't know what to say. I don't even know if you can hear me. Gordon always tells me that you can, but he says lots of stuff that isn't true._

_I guess school's been okay. There's this kid, Fermat, he follows me around a lot. We have lunch together. I can't have lunch with Virgil and Gordon anymore, their friends don't let me. I miss sitting with them. Fermat's okay, I guess. _

_I wish Dad would let me come home. It's not going to happen. I'm stuck at school forever. At least I have food. I hate bologna, but it's better than what Virgil and John cook. They tried to poison us all the time. _

_I wish you were here. Then I wouldn't be at a dumb school, and I could have a normal family. I don't want to be there. Dad thinks I'm stupid, he thinks that's why I get detention. I'm not stupid. I just want to be doing something else. Maybe if they would kick me out, then everything would go back to normal._

_This isn't different from talking to Dad. He doesn't answer anyway. I don't know if he listens. It's all the same._

_Bye, I guess.

* * *

_

It had started as a simple tradition many years ago, at the first supper that the Tracy children had spent without their mother. Scott could still remember bowing his head as he was now, praying to his mother for some form of guidance. At fourteen he had been old enough to know that there was going to be no answer, but the prayer had given him a time to express his feelings in a way that he had never been able to do around his family. As the oldest child, he had been looked to for strength and security. While others could cry and complain, he had not had that opportunity. In many ways he still did not.

So it happened that the only one he could truly confide in was his mother, at Christmas time, around the dinner table. She alone would not be affected by his personal hardship. In fact he felt an obligation to tell her how her family was doing, just as he had an obligation to that family itself. Scott smiled sadly, and began to look back on the previous year and all that had happened.

_Christmas time already. Who'd have thought that this year would go by so fast? I thought it would never end. So much has been happening in this family that I thought we'd never make it to December in one piece. We have, though, and we're doing okay. I think that we are. It's like we are a family again, and not a bunch of strangers thrown into the same house. We're taking our problems in stride, dealing with them together, not individually like we were in June. _

_I don't know if you agree with what Dsad did. I don't know if you are mad at him for moving us all to the island. He could have left us at the house and still sent them to boarding school, though it would have kept the cobwebs lying around that I think we've finally brushed away. I guess maybe you could say that dad is uncaring, that he's thinking about something other than his kids, but I don't think so. He cares too much, that's his problem._

_I hope we're making you proud, mom. What dad wants to do - I would give up a lot of things to help him out. Even if he made me help, without asking, I still would. I haven't told dad yet, but I'm quitting the air force. It just isn't my cup of tea. There's too much mindless shooting and not enough thought about what we're shooting at. Dad needs help getting everything off the ground, and I think his idea is better in the long run anyway. _

_I just wish I could tell everyone else what's going on. At least that way they'd know why dad did what he did, and they could choose to be mad at him or not. There'd be no more of this fog hanging around us that's still holding us back from the clear sailing ahead. Dad wants to tell them, but I won't let him. Neither way is really better. It's all a mess to begin with. _

_I'm glad that I can tell you this. I know you can keep a secret. Anyway, I hope you're all right where you are. I know that you are. And I'll try and keep everything going steady here on the ground. Don't worry, you can count on me. I'll watch over Dad for you._

_I'll make you proud.

* * *

_

The words from the prayer were barely out of his mouth when John lowered his head and closed his eyes. For him, Christmas was a special time when he could do the one thing that he always wanted to do without guilt or fear of being laughed at. He could speak to his mother.

In many ways that aspect of Christmas was present all year, every moment and every time that he thought about his mother or whispered her name under his breath.

But yet, he insisted, it was still different. Emotions were raw around Christmas, as were memories that were too painful to be thought about. But he did anyway. With the memories came the fading images of his mother, her warm smile, her rolling laugh so much like Gordon's, and her tight embrace that he had felt so often as a child on his shoulders.

Easter was always supposed to be the time of renewal, John thought sadly. But it was Christmas that allowed him to remember the one thing that was beginning to slip away from him. He couldn't let it go. As much as he had to be thankful for, to treasure and still hold onto, he could not let his mother disappear. She meant to much to him to ever allow him to forget.

Throwing all other thoughts aside, John let his mind drift to the past and prepared to accept what he knew would come next.

_Hi, Mom. It's me again. It's funny how when Christmas rolls around, I realize that another year has gone by without you. I know that I say this every year, but I really do miss you. I know that you're gone, that you can't answer me, and that you may not even be able to hear me . . . but it doesn't matter. _

_Things are finally looking like they're settling down. Poor Gordon and Virgil. They had some hard times over the summer, trying to adjust to the move. I feel just horrible that what happened . . . happened. They did what they did so that I could continue on with my schooling. It's weird, because now that I'm set to take my test in two years, I'm not really excited. It's something that I want to do, yet no matter what I say to myself it doesn't feel that fulfilling to me._

_Maybe it's because I was doing the greatest good helping out my brothers, staying at home and cooking for them and taking care of them. I feel like I'm being a horrible brother to them now. They've had to give up a portion of their lives for me, and it just doesn't seem right. But I can't just sit at home forever. I have to get out and do something! _

_And a part of me is mad at Scott, because he ran off and got himself a job. I hate being angry with Scott. I'm doing the exact same thing that he is, and I understand more than ever why Gordon and Virgil were mad at me. I'm being hypocritical._

_I know that you can't help me with this. I have to figure this out on my own. I just wanted you to know what's going on, in case you're wondering. Dad is so happy about the NASA offer. He's excited that one of his sons is finally going to follow in his footsteps._

_And I have my pilot's license! Can you believe that? I never thought it would be possible. I just hope that it's enough. I'm really worried that I won't pass the space-worthy test, and that I'll be shunted to some desk job somewhere. I suppose that'd be all right, but the chance to be able to see the stars up in space . . ._

_I know, you're probably smiling at me and shaking your head. I should get my head out of the stars and back down to Earth. I guess I'll just let it all play out and see what happens, Mom. I hope that everything straightens out, and that everyone finally finds their place. _

_I just wish that I could do something more to help. Or maybe I'm worrying about something stupid - maybe they're stronger than I am, and they'll pull through on their own._

_I hope so._

_I promise, Mom, I'll make you proud. I may have stumbled a bit since . . . you died, but I haven't stayed down. I won't give up. If I can do anything with my life, I will. I don't know if NASA is truly the answer, but it's a start. Hope it's good enough for you._

_Over and out.

* * *

_

"Grace." Jeff's hoarse voice awakened everyone from their thoughts. The boys opened their eyes, to see tears running down his face. "Let's eat."

No one spoke while the food was being passed around. No one asked Jeff Tracy what he had been thinking, or why he was crying. No one had to. The tears on the faces of all of the children were enough explanation in itself.

Even Fermat and James Wilson looked distinctly wet-eyed, as if they too had been fighting with some sort of inner dilemma.

Finally, the meal having been distributed, Jeff cleared his throat and looked around at his boys. "I know that this year hasn't been easy." He glanced quickly at Virgil and Gordon, checking to see if they were all right. "You've got through some hard times that would have finished off most people your age. And you're not boys, anymore. You're young men that have taken on the problems of people twice your age and you haven't fallen. You have done me proud."

Blushing at his father's words, Gordon looked down at his plate as if he were embarrassed about something.

"I just want you all to know that no matter what happens, we're still a family, and we'll always be there for each other."

"That's right." Scott had set down his silverware, and was also looking across the table at his brothers. "So no more of this bickering, or fighting, or hiding things from each other. We never used to be that way, and we shouldn't be now."

Instead of arguing, Alan, Gordon, and Virgil looked at each other, sighed, then nodded.

"I guess."

"Scott's right."

"Yeah."

John, his eyes looking elsewhere, nodded absently and reached a hand to brush back a lock of hair from his eyes. "Things aren't going to become easier. We have to make do with what we have." His eyes finally cleared, and a tiny smile creased the corners of his lips. "That's what this meal is all about; to give thanks, and to remember what we do have."

"Please don't go sappy on us," Gordon mumbled, "I don't think I can take it."

"I don't have to say it," John replied, "you know what I'm talking about. So let's forget about this all for now, and get to eating this food. We're family. That's the end of it."

"A-a-a-and me too?" Fermat asked from the other side of the table.

"Of course." Jeff smiled, and placed his hand on Fermat's shoulder. "You and your father are always welcome at my home."

"What are we waiting for?" Fed up with staring at his plate and not being able to eat, Scott was anxious to dig in. "I am so hungry, and I had to spend all afternoon cooking this food without being able to eat any of it."

"Too bad for you," Gordon laughed, taking pleasure in popping a carrot into his mouth. "It tastes so good, too."

Laughing along, the rest of the Tracy family reached for their forks.

"Merry Christmas, boys."

* * *

**A/N:** Well, this was supposed to be posted for Christmas. :P A bit late, mind you, but it's posted all the same. I hope no one minded too much that I included prayer into the scene. I've always thought that a very traditional family like the Tracy's would be familiar with that sort of thing. :) 

_Anywho, reviews! Look, there's more of them again. ;) (Gosh, I'm greedy . . .)_

_Thank you everyone who took the time out to review the last two chapters!_

**Marblez** – Don't worry 'bout it. I had that problem when I wanted to post something else. :S I'm glad to have you reading, though! :) (Any sign of a new chapter on A Tracy Childhood? Tease tease.)

**thunderbirdgirl** – Yeah, my little brother's like that. It's always about food and video games. :) Hey, if you want someone to look over your story when you think it's ready, just give me a shout. I'd be glad to help. :)

**zeilfanaat** – It's just in some of the episodes, not all. But the ones that stand out for me are . . . For Gordon and Virgil – the episode where Tintin is out with that Eddie guy and they're roasting Alan about it. A lot of my G/V stuff is derived directly from that. For Scott and John – the two episodes that I can think of when he's downside, notably the one where Tintin and Brains go treasure hunting, and the (lovely!) episode where John goes on a rescue to the tanker. _Whispers_ Don't listen to Ariel, she's being a tease. ;) I'm glad to see that you're so into the story, though.

**miz greenleaf** – It'd hard not to like Fermat. ;) He was so little-kid-adorable in the film. Thanks for your reivew!

**Ariel D** – Are you flaunting your unfair advantage? ;) Shame. You can flaunt it even more once you read Ch. 14 and 15.

**Devlinn Reiko-sama** – Hey, you're at Waterloo? I went there for a physics summer school two summers ago! :D Lovely country around there. There was one restaurant in Waterloo that I was particularly fond of, some sort of Bistro in the downtown area. Anyway . . . ;) Fermat was on our math final . . . it was very easy to remember. ;)

Anywho, the next chapter will be a little short 'teaser chapter' entitled "Conspirator's Unite". Hmm, wonder who that could be?

_FAB!_


	14. Conspirator's Unite

_

* * *

DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to Thunderbirds, and do not intend to make any profit from this story. It is for entertainment purposes only. Go find money someplace else, I'm poor right now.

* * *

_

**Conspirators Unite  
January 2016**

"You want to do _what?_" Jeff Tracy couldn't believe how many times his sons were managing to wrangle that phrase from his lips. First it had been John, wanting to get his pilot's license. Then it had been Virgil, who had declared only a week earlier that he wanted to take a practical mechanics course once he finished up school.

And now it was Scott.

"Quit the air force."

"No."

"I already have." The eldest Tracy boy grinned slightly and shrugged. "Before Christmas. It's why I've had such a long break here. I dropped a note asking for a discharge, packed up my stuff, and left. I can deal with the rest through correspondence."

"Scott!"

"Listen Dad," Scott sighed, holding up his hands in defence. "You can't do this on your own. You and James will be at it forever. You need an extra person to get this project going. Besides, who's going to fly the reconnaissance craft?"

Jeff shrugged glumly, not willing to admit to Scott that he was right. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Yeah you have." The tone of Scott's voice was steady. "I know you have, Dad. You think things through better than that. Besides, why did you bother to even tell me at the end of the summer? Guilty conscience?"

"All right!" Giving in, Jeff sighed and banged his hand down on the workbench. A box of tools rattled about, and the welding kit that he had been using nearly tumbled off the edge. "I was going to ask you later. But not now."

Scott's eyes narrowed slightly. "Why not? It makes perfect sense to."

"I don't want you to throw your life away until absolutely necessary," the elder Tracy replied, his own eyes squinting. "And even then, it's still most definitely your decision."

Huffing, Scott folded his arms across his chest and gave his father a knowing look. "Well, you've given me the choice. And guess what?" A small grin curved his lips. "I like the idea. I like it way more than anything the air force can offer. I don't think it's a waste of time, and I don't think that I'll be throwing my life away."

"Scott."

"Besides," he continued, a tiny edge of cockiness coming to his voice, "who do you want flying beside you? Someone you can trust, right?"

Jeff closed his eyes, and let out a long sigh. "Scott."

"Dad, this is my choice. You're not forcing me into anything." Reaching out a hand to push the welder back onto the bench, Scott looked up and gazed out at the wide expanse that lay before him. "Look at this place. It's amazing. But it's not finished."

"The contractors could only do so much. I didn't want to arouse suspicion. They think it's just a hanger for the plane, or maybe for some secret work stuff. That's what I told them."

An amused snort escaped Scott's lips. "A turbo-prop hanger? They can't even imagine what's in here." He absently picked up a power-screwdriver and banged it against his palm. "With my help you should be able to finish this place up in about a year's time. I've made up my mind, Dad. You're stuck with me until further notice. At least this way you won't have to involve everyone else. We can tell them when everything is set, and no sooner."

Succumbing to the reality that he would not be able to convince Scott otherwise, Jeff nodded his head in acceptance. "I guess that I can't change your mind, Scott. You're as stubborn as your old man."

"It's your stubbornness that made this, Dad." Scott stretched out his hand, taking in the entire bay. "You've worked on this for years with only James to help you. Look how far you've come!"

Scott's point hit Jeff smack in the face. "You've definitely got that right, son." He glanced around at the almost finished cavern, then slowly let his gaze settle on a set of large blast doors to the right of the workbench. "How about it?"

Scott's eyes followed his father's, coming to rest on the entrance to the turbo scram hanger. "She'll be faster than anything out there. A real technological achievement."

"Think you can handle her if I give her to you?" It was a rhetorical question, for Jeff knew his son's skill and passion for fast aircraft.

There was no doubt in Scott's voice when he answered. "Oh yeah." A twinkle flashed across his eyes. "Oh yeah."

* * *

**A/N:** I apologize for the shortness of this chapter. I couldn't really bundle it with anything else, yet I couldn't cut it out because it explains some stuff. And thanks to my beta reader, Ariel D (whom I keep forgetting to thank), for reading these chapters over. You're doing a great job of keeping me flying on course. ;) 

Reviews! Thank you so much, to everyone that reviewed last chapter. I'm glad it went over well. I'll try and keep this short, so that the author note is not longer then the actual chappie . . .

**Marblez** – Can't wait to read the revised edition. Re-writing can be a pain in the butt, no joke. :) First mission? A little while yet, but hopefully you'll keep reading until then.  
**mcj **– Thank you. :D I keep running into that every chapter I write – they should talk more with each other than they do.  
**moonlightbear **– Yay, a new reader! Hello new reader. ;) I can't remember why at this point, but I deliberately chose not to use the avalanche in this story. _Racks brain_ Aw, it ran away. Anyway, thanks so much for adding me to your list. Hopefully I won't disappoint.  
**ladc **– Glad Fermat struck you as being a bit more likeable. I have to admit, I found chapters 11 and 12 hard to write – I had to skip ahead and write a nice chapter with John before I could finish them. ;)  
**Arashi no Baka** – Thank you so much! :D You don't have to give up anything – I love your writing a great deal. I've just started writing the chapter with the accident. It's proving interesting . . . I was honestly considering whether or not any of the boys should be made gay in the story, but I decided against it because it just didn't work with the way that I saw them. :) Would have made for some awfully spicy chapters, though. ;)  
**Assena **– That's what I was aiming for – I'm glad that I delivered. :) Hopefully you won't cry too hard. I'm having to change around some things to make the story fit in with the movie as well as the show, but I think it'll work out pretty well.  
**Devlinn Reiko-sama** – Thanks! Hope you like this one too.  
**Ariel D** – I couldn't resist putting in the line about the swim trunks hanging from the back of the plane. ;)  
**andrewjameswilliams** – Don't worry about it. :) Let's see . . . Chapter Sixteen is when the boys find out. I'm such a tease . . .  
**zeilfanaat** – Flaunt is a wonderful word, and you're using it correctly so don't worry. ;) Yep, that's the only episode where he actually goes on a rescue. Poor guy, daddy didn't love him. ;)  
**miz greenleaf** – Thanks! Sorry about taking so long to update. My homework is trying to eat me.

* * *

Tune in next time for "Test", otherwise known as John goes to a job interview . . .  
_FAB!_


	15. Test

_

* * *

DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to Thunderbirds, and no profit is to be made from this story. It is for entertainment purposes only. Also, any characters herein that are depicted as NASA employees are not to be taken as examples of either the opinions or the organization of NASA in general. Alicia Berkman and Lawrence Clayton are original characters, and are not to be used without the permission of the writer. _

* * *

**Test  
August 2017**

"I could throw up right about now."

Glancing over at his blonde-haired son, who looked green enough to be a Martian, Jeff Tracy didn't doubt it. "Don't stress yourself out, John. You haven't even started the test yet."

Seated in the passenger seat of the rent-a-car that Jeff had picked up just for the purpose of taking John to his test, John closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with his index fingers. "I know, I know."

While Jeff was dressed in a snappy suit and pants set, John was wearing a T-shirt and a loose pair of cargo pants, something that he could take into the physical portion of the test. He absently rubbed at his upper arms, as if checking to make sure that the newly developed biceps were still there. Two years worth of work between classes had turned his gangly frame into a muscled and solid looking body, yet John still radiated an inherent shyness about his build that had not been dulled by countless hours of exercise and weight-training. He looked the part of a soldier, until a person gazed into his eyes, and saw the curiosity there that could only be formed in the mind of a scientist.

"And there are other parts to the qualification exam," Jeff continued, trying to keep his son distracted. "After all, it's just like a job interview. They'll review your record, check your academics, and probably ask you some technical questions to test your expertise."

"I hope the degree is enough."

"It'll be enough," Jeff assured John, slapping his son on the leg to emphasis the point. "Most people that are nineteen haven't even started thinking about college yet, and you've somehow managed to pull off a degree with great distinctions before your twentieth birthday. I wish I'd had the drive to do that at your age."

Shaking his head, John turned to gaze out the window at the rolling countryside. "No you don't. You don't know what drives me."

Jeff did indeed know what John's inspiration was. But he was not about to push the point. "Maybe not, John."

Several kilometres of road flashed by before either of them said anything else. The morning sun had risen to its zenith in the sky, its light casting shadows across the car and the trees at the side of the drive.

"How much further?"

"Not far." Jeff glanced at his odometer, then squinted out into the sunlight. "We've gone quite a distance, so we should be pretty close. Ah." He pointed a finger at the window. "See that tower there? That's Cape Canaveral's main launch site."

John leaned forward, reaching up a hand to block the sun from his eyes. "Yeah." Gazing out at the tower for a long moment, he finally closed his eyes and turned his head. He sighed, and threw himself back onto the seat. "I can't do this."

Oh yes you can, Jeff thought mildly. He hadn't come a few thousand miles from home just so John could change his mind. He knew how John's mind worked. Having raised the child alone for almost half of his life, he knew most of what went on in his son's mind.

"You won't lose anything by trying."

"Just the hope of ever being able to do something like it. Once that's gone, it's gone."

"You know something? I remember a certain twelve-year-old boy who once put me in my place with his insight. What happened to all of that wisdom?"

John turned to look at his father. "This _is_ wisdom. It's foolishness when you don't know what to do, but then you decide to pour all of your energy into one thing. It's wisdom to know that if that one thing doesn't work, if it fails, then you're finished."

Jeff could understand that more than John could ever know. As much as he wanted to console his son, he realised that once again John was right. If a person devoted their life to something, only to have that something disappear –

That was why Jeff had allowed Scott to quit the air force. It was why he and Scott and James were spending eighteen hours a day putting the finishing touches on a portion of Tracy island that only they knew existed. Jeff too was in a position that - if his dream failed - he would have nothing left. He had devoted his entire life, since Lucy's death, to his project, and he would see it through to its completion.

Some people would call him and John fools, for their ability to focus their minds on one task and one task only. He didn't consider himself a fool, just a dreamer that would be a fool if his dream went foul.

"Dad." John's quiet voice shook Jeff from his contemplation. "Dad, you're drifting."

Shaking his head clear, Jeff righted the car and silently berated himself for letting his mind wander while he was driving. "Thanks John."

"Something on your mind?"

It was funny how John was always able to know when someone else was troubled; the boy had enough problems of his own to be constantly worrying about others. But it wasn't time to tell John what was going on, Jeff decided. His son had too many other things to think about. He didn't need one more.

"Just thinking," Jeff replied, "just thinking."

"About what?"

He doesn't quit, Jeff thought, he just doesn't quit. "Life."

"Hmmm." John smiled wryly, an amused twinkle coming to his eyes. "That's a pretty broad topic. Life, the universe, and everything perhaps?"

"You are a stubborn boy," Jeff declared, slowing down the vehicle, as the entrance to the Cape finally became visible. "I just hope that you remember that today. You're stubborn, and you don't give up."

"Of course not," John laughed quietly, his voice calmer than it had been for the last hour. "You've said it yourself. I take after you. I'm a Tracy."

The two men locked gazes for a long moment. "Definitely, son. You are most definitely a Tracy boy."

* * *

After more than twenty years away from the institute, Jeff Tracy didn't expect many people at Cape Canaveral to recognize him. He was distinctly flattered, therefore, when he was greeted at the door of the main building by a contingent of engineers and administrators alike that claimed to have been former colleagues of his. 

"I'm sure you know the way," Alicia Berkman, the head director of research engineering, laughed as she took Jeff by the arm and pulled him through the throng. "The place hasn't changed that much since you quit."

Alicia was perhaps the stereotypical image of an engineer. Her brown hair was pulled up loosely into a ponytail, and she wore nothing fancier than casual dress pants and a cotton blouse. Middle age was already etching lines into her forehead, but a slight twinkle in her eyes hid her age and suggested that a much younger woman lay within.

"No," Jeff muttered, looking about and seeing that most things were still in the same places. Little things, like benches and the like, had been moved about. The walls had changed colour. But the receptionist's desk was still at the front, and there was still an old coin-operated vending machine leaning up beside the maintenance hallway.

John, who followed silently behind Jeff, didn't say much. He simply stared, as if he were in shock, at the entire room. Jeff didn't have the heart to tell John that it was nothing special, and was just the lobby. He doubted that John would care even if he did.

"And this is your son John?" Alicia asked, looking behind her back at the blond-haired teen. "He certainly looks a great deal like you, Jeff. Except for the eyes."

"Those are Lucy's. We noticed that the day that he was born."

Alicia smiled. "I'm sure that he has your passion for space, Jeff. And he surely possesses your skills in the trade." She stopped them in front of the desk, grabbing a stack of forms in her left arm. "We'll need these for later. John will have to fill them out while he's waiting."

John's incredulous expression caused Jeff to smile. "Get used to it, son. Half of NASA is paperwork."

"Paperwork?" John muttered, quietly so that no one but Jeff could hear. "It looks like she picked up the entire contents of a recycle bin."

"Pretty close." Grinning as Alicia turned to glare at him, Jeff shrugged, turned, and slapped John lightly on his shoulder. A quick tug had John beside Jeff, stuck between him and Alicia. "It's not that bad."

What Jeff was trying to hide from John was the amount of people that were following them 'inconspicuously', trying to get a good look at the son of Jeff Tracy. He had a feeling that the idea of being stalked would not sit well with his son, given how much John liked dealing people to begin with.

The trio finally approached a large set of double doors, which Alicia pushed open with her free hand. "John, you need to come in here with me. I'll introduce you to the members of the selection committee, and then we'll get started." She gave Jeff an apologetic look and pointed back at the lobby. "You'll have to sit out there. Sorry about that, I tried to convince them-"

"It's all right," Jeff interrupted smoothly, "I know what their policies are. John is more than mature enough to do this on his own. That's why he's here in the first place."

"Dad," John began, but before he could say more Jeff held up a hand and silenced him.

"You'll do fine, John. Just try your best, and don't forget that that's all that matters." Reaching out his arms and pushing John away to arm's length, Jeff took a long look at his son.

Though he let his head fall to his chest so that he didn't have to face his father, John could not hide from Jeff the emotions that played across his face. They were obvious to the older man, after so many years of caring for his sons.

So many things had changed in the young man in the past two years that Jeff couldn't even keep track, but nothing struck him more than the look of determination that twinkled deep within John's ice blue eyes. In many ways it represented everything else that had happened to John during that time. Overcoming a phobia so he could finally learn to fly, taking the time out to get in shape for the testing, learning two extra languages to help appease the requirements of the program - those were only a few of the sacrifices that he had made to pursue his dream. Yet, the muscular and poised looking young man that stood before Jeff was obviously ready to give up that much again . . . and more.

"I couldn't be more proud of you," Jeff said finally, taking John's chin in his hands and pushing the young man's head up so that he could look him in the eyes. "What you've done these past two years, in my books, is warrant alone for your suitability for the position."

"Dad . . ."

"Go for it," Jeff replied, pulling back his arms from his son. "I'll be waiting."

"Okay." John swallowed deeply, then turned and began to walk through the doors. He was halfway into the next room when he swung around suddenly, his face anxious. "Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Keep some lunch for me." John's face was more nervous looking than Jeff had ever seen it before. "Just in case." He didn't have to elaborate on what 'just in case' meant.

* * *

For what had to have been the tenth time in an hour, Jeff Tracy began to explain to an interested individual what he had been doing with his life since he had left the space program. "Engineering," he explained slowly, "mostly aeronautical and aerospace. Tracy Industries is one of the fastest growing companies in the world. We actually supply most of the parts that you people use in your rockets." 

Alicia Berkman nodded from where she sat. "Mr. Tracy is right. NASA spends a great deal of money each year to keep his family happy and fed."

Those assembled around the table had a long chuckle at Jeff's expense. "Really, Jeff," said Lawrence Clayton, who had worked with Jeff on a few projects in his time. "I heard that you even went and bought yourself an island recently. An island!"

"Oh, I had the island already," Jeff replied smugly, drawing more laughter from the crowd. "Bought it a few years back when the owner nation was trying to get rid of it cheap. It was just our summer cottage."

"A cottage!" Lawrence looked almost insulted. "He calls it a cottage." Taking a sip from his drink, he pointed a long finger at Jeff. "Mark my words, those boys of yours will become spoiled if you're not careful."

Jeff sighed. "They're good kids."

"Looks that way," Alicia put in, "that boy of yours looked completely on top of things, at least while I was watching the examination."

Lawrence's attention seemed to be grabbed by the comment. "Good head on his shoulders?"

"Of course, Lawrence, would I lie?"

Jeff snorted, amused with the entire exchange. He remembered how things had been when he had been with NASA. Alicia was right - very little had changed.

Glancing down at her watch, Alicia raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Pretty good. He must have done all right on the technical aptitude test. They must have him in physical training right now."

Jeff couldn't contain a cringe. "I suppose." Even though John had apparently been able to overcome his fear of normal flying, the forces that he would be exposed to in the centrifuge were likely more than enough to make him ill, phobia or not. John might be able to hold on, but Jeff also had seen how nervous his son had been when he walked into the room. One twitch of his nerves, and John would be finished.

Peering at Jeff, Alicia gave the man a scrutinising look. "You're not worried, are you? Jeff Tracy, the man who has logged more hours in space than any other person his age? It's just a ride in the centrifuge and a couple of other things."

But John isn't me, Jeff thought sadly. "I trust my son. He's a good kid, and he knows what he's doing."

"Good genes," Lawrence argued, "are always a sign. He can't go wrong with Jeff Tracy as a father. He'll ace the tests."

* * *

"Want to talk about it?" 

The warm waves of the Atlantic Ocean lapped across Jeff Tracy's feet as he spoke, trailing gentle lines in the sandy beaches of the Cape. The sun, which had nearly fallen to the horizon, cast a warm glow across the water. Ripples of light danced about, reflecting hues of red and gold onto the few clouds that dotted the sky.

"Hmm?" Jeff crouched down so that he was level with his son, who was sitting cross-legged amidst the water and the sand. "John?"

John didn't answer. His thoughts were apparently elsewhere, probably lost amongst the water and the sun.

"Alicia said you did very well. They were very impressed with your knowledge and expertise."

Finally moving, John began to trace patterns into the sand with his finger. "They said I had potential," he replied quietly. The pain in his voice was obvious. "A great deal."

"That's all right then." Trying to make things as easy as possible, Jeff sat down in the muck, ignoring the stains that he was obviously getting on the underside of his suit. "That's a very big compliment."

John's eyes glistened, in the same way that the ocean did. "They offered me a job."

Based upon what Alicia had told him, Jeff had guessed as much. "Where?"

"In Launch co-ordination. On the ground, in the main facility."

There it was, Jeff thought. The reason that John had simply walked from the building, without looking back, until he had come upon a roadblock that he could not traverse. He wondered - if the ocean hadn't been there - whether John would have walked all of the way to Africa.

"It was all a joke," John muttered bitterly, "who was I kidding?"

"John."

His face flushing, John turned angrily towards his father. "I don't know what they were expecting. I'm not perfect!" He slammed the ground with his fist.

"Maybe I could go talk to them," Jeff offered, trying to keep his voice under control. "I could-"

"Do nothing." The words were spat with a chill feel to them. "Don't you get it? The son of Jeff Tracy, _the_ Jeff Tracy, couldn't take the centrifuge test. He threw up on the feet of the head evaluator. He's a disgrace. A disappointment . . . to everyone." The final words degraded into a sob.

Unable to speak, Jeff simply reached over and pulled his son to his chest in a tight hug.

"This is stupid," John sputtered, "I'm crying over this. No wonder I didn't pass the test. They're right. I don't have bravery or stamina. The right stuff isn't there. I was scared out of my mind, Dad. I don't know if it was the phobia or my body that caused me to be sick. I guess it doesn't really matter, the result is still the same."

"No." Shaking his head, Jeff held John as tight as he could. "No, they're wrong, John. Son, you are one of the bravest people that I've ever met, and I've worked with some of the best."

Another sob escaped John's lips. "You're my father. You're supposed to say that."

"Then I'm biased," Jeff replied, "but it's true. And I won't have you argue about it anymore."

John nodded his head slightly but said nothing.

"Alicia told me that they've never offered that position to someone of your age before."

"I know."

Jeff didn't need to ask the next question. He knew that John had already formed it in his mind, and was already answering it.

"I can start next week. They've given me an apartment on site. And it won't take that long to move my stuff." John closed his eyes, sending a final pair of tears falling to the sand. "I guess I'm just not meant to be an astronaut."

"You don't need to be. You can do something else, John, and still be a good man. Hang in there." A tiny smile crept onto Jeff's face. "The best man that I've ever known worked in the cafeteria at Cape Canaveral. He never went to college, yet he did so much good simply by keeping us crazy NASA personnel sane in the lonely hours of the morning. Made the most wonderful cup of coffee in the world, and had a mind that could rival a philosopher's."

John chuckled weakly, his voice shaky. "I'll be all right, dad."

It was Jeff's turn to respond with, "I know." He ruffled John's hair, wondering where his boy had vanished that he had always held in his arms. "You always are, John. That's strength and bravery. The ability to look inside yourself for the strength that you need to survive. The bravery to decide to go it alone when there's no one there to help you."

"Dad."

"I haven't always been there for you." Jeff smiled sadly. "I realize that. But I'm here for you now."

John reached up a hand grabbed a hold of his father's arm. "I know," he whispered, his blue eyes focused on a point past the horizon. "I know."

"You've kept us going since your mother died," Jeff said suddenly, his voice quiet. "I know how much you want to succeed in life, John."

"Hmm." Closing his eyes, John pursed his lips and raised a hand to cover his face.

"And I know that even if you're disappointed, you'll still give this other position your sweat and blood. Am I right?"

The comment struck home. Slowly, as if still trying to put off the moment, John nodded. "I won't disappoint you dad. Not again."

"You're not a disappointment. I don't know what they were expecting to see, but when I look at you I see my son - John Tracy, not Jeff Tracy - and I am not disappointed."

Whispering something, John pulled his knees up to his chest and buried his head in the soft material of the cargo pants.

"Maybe, John," Jeff whispered back. "Your mom was a special person. Being like her wouldn't be a sin."

The water had finally stopped rippling, as the sun had gone down and the air had cooled. The ocean was calm, a silent mirror reflecting the gentle hues of sunset. In the water, Jeff could see the reflection of John Tracy, eyes red from crying, expression serene as he tried to look inside of himself. Blond hair fell about his face, and into those eyes that were so piercing.

Blue eyes that belonged to his mother.

* * *

**A/N:** And there we go – John is off to NASA, but not to outer space. _Grins evilly_. How does this resolve? We'll see in coming chapters. This chapter was for all you John fans out there - I had fun writing it (I felt so bad making him fail, though), and I hope you have fun reading it. First, though, it's on to other things. A _huge_ thank-you goes out to Ariel D for beta reading this for me. Maybe sometime in the near future I'll be a good beta reader and send back _her_ chapter. ;) I am not this deserving . . . 

Reviews! Thank you to everyone who reviewed the . . . short little milk carton blurb that I tried to pass off as a chapter. I promise, Scott _does_ have a nice big part later on.

**zeilfanaat** – Yay! _Dances_ Which episodes are they? _Ahem._ I hold no responsibility for the actions of my dearest beta reader, except maybe to toss a nice little box of cookies in her direction for thanks. They are absolutely not a subtle hint to keep up the flaunting. ;)

**Ariel D** – You flaunter. ;) _Snicker_s But you've read it already!

**moonlightbear** – I hope this qualifies as soon. :) Glad you had some laughs with the last chapter. I was horrified having to post something so short! Guess how long the unedited first revision is so far? 97,000 words. We've got a _long_ way to go . . . ;D So don't worry, I'm still writing.

**miz greenleaf** – I have good news and bad news. Scott won't have a big chapter all to himself until closer to the end. Good news? He gets two whole chapters to himself later. :) So, do you have your pilot's license? If so, I'm jealous. ;) I _really_ want to learn how to fly. Computer games don't cut it.

* * *

Da da da dum! Tune in next time for the chapter "In the Know", where the rest of the Tracy boys accidentally stumble upon a hidden secret of Tracy Island. 

_FAB! _


	16. In the Know

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* * *

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_DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to Thunderbirds, and no profit is intended to be made from this story. It is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended, and none should be inferred.

* * *

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**In the Know  
December 2017**

The warm currents of the Pacific Ocean drifted about Tracy Island, keeping the land heated even during the cool winter months of North America. Palm trees swayed slowly in the light breeze, growing under the harsh glare of a tropical sun.

Stretched out upon a beach blanket, Gordon Tracy raised his hands in the air and gave a long yawn. "This is so the way to spend Christmas holidays." Ginger locks trailed across his forehead, having been pushed there by the gentle southern winds.

Lying beside him on his own blanket, Virgil Tracy nodded and folded his hands behind his head. "Yeah. I'm not much for the snow that they're getting back home right now." The words escaped Virgil's mouth before he even considered them. No matter how much he tried to convince himself, the island still didn't quite seem like home.

Rolling over, Gordon extended his arms above his head and buried his face in the cloth. "I'm thinking I can get a good tan here," he mumbled through the blanket. "What about you?"

"Just make sure you have enough lotion on," Virgil responded, deciding that the beach was a good a place as any to finish his book. He reached over to the side and picked the pocket novel up in his hand. "You know what happened last time."

"I was young and stupid then."

Virgil raised an eyebrow in mild amusement. "That was two years ago. And you are what now?"

Gordon's body shook slightly as he laughed. "Possibly old and stupid, but what would that make you?"

"Ancient and senile, apparently." A laugh escaped Virgil's mouth. "Fifteen makes you old?"

Not responding immediately, Gordon took a long time to think his answer through. "Well," he began, "when Scott was fourteen, I considered him to be an adult. I thought he was kind of old. And since I don't like to act like an adult, and I have been recently, I think that makes me definitely old, considering that I'm fifteen."

Finding the entire conversation amusing, Virgil chuckled and flipped to the next page in his book. "Suit yourself."

"Absolutely. I prefer this swimsuit to _anything_ else."

An hour passed before either Virgil or Gordon said anymore. During that time, Gordon simply lay stomach down on the blanket, trying to do something other than burn in the sun.

Virgil had been completely absorbed in his book and had not even noticed that an hour had gone by. Having finally finished his book, he turned to look at his brother, only to discover that Gordon was beginning to turn a rather loud shade of crimson.

"You're starting to fry, Gord."

A loud snore was Gordon's response.

Shaking his head in dismay, Virgil grabbed a stick that was lying nearby on the beach. He prodded Gordon in the side, then groaned when his brother didn't respond. "Gordon, you are a lazy bum." When Gordon didn't answer again, Virgil truly began to worry. "Gordon, wake up. I think you're getting burned."

Finally acknowledging his brother, Gordon moaned then tried to roll over. He managed to turn over halfway, stopping and groaning when his back touched the ground.

"Why didn't you wake me up!"

Virgil's mouth opened and closed several times. "Oh, never mind." He sighed, and helped his brother to his feet, making sure not to touch Gordon's tender back. "Looks like you missed a spot."

Gordon's face crinkled in pain. "You don't have to tell me."

"Come on." A quick sweep of his hand had the blankets lying across Virgil's arm. "There's water back at the house, and I think there might be some ointment somewhere around as well."

* * *

Watching Virgil and Gordon mess through the fridge, Alan thought the entire situation to be rather humorous. "I can't believe you forgot to use sun-tan lotion," he laughed, leaning against the door-jam to the room. "Only an idiot would do that."

A pair of irritated sounding mumbles drifted from the fridge.

"Huh?"

Pulling his head from the door angrily, Gordon turned to stare at his brother. "I called you a mouthy little brat. In case you didn't hear."

Alan made a face but continued to chuckle at his brother.

"Found it." Virgil gave a hard tug and pulled a container of ice down from the top freezer. "There should be enough here."

The ginger-haired Tracy sighed in relief, and went over to the couch to lie down. He flopped himself onto the cushions stomach first, so that his reddened back was exposed to the air. "Please pour it on now."

Unsure of whether it was a good idea, Virgil hesitated. "I don't know . . ."

"Just get some cloth first," Gordon directed airily, "then put the ice on. Virg, I have a degree in first aid. It came with the swimming class. You know that!"

"Oh, I know," Virgil muttered, moving to drape a blanket across Gordon. "But after the suntan lotion mishap, I don't know whether I should trust you in the first place." The blanket in place, he took the ice container, opened it, and poured the contents onto Gordon. "Besides, I think you really are suffering from heat-stroke. And I'm sure that you're not supposed to put ice on burns, now that I think about it."

Gordon's eyes went wide as the ice thudded onto his peeling skin. Even with the blanket, the pain was still searing. "Owwww!"

"Serves you right." Virgil replaced the container in the freezer, after filling it full again with water. "Next time you'll be more careful. And drink some water too."

Alan snickered and pointed a finger at his brother. "Ha ha. Gordon's not saying much now, is he?"

Raising an eyebrow, Virgil turned, grabbed Alan by the shirt, and began to drag him from the room.

"Hey!" protested the younger Tracy. "What are you doing?"

"You're coming with me," Virgil muttered dryly. "You're going to help me find medicated cream."

"Oh." Alan rolled his eyes as he threw Virgil's hand from his shirt. "Joy."

* * *

"You'd think Dad would have some somewhere," Virgil sighed, re-checking the medicine cabinet for what had to be the fifth time. "Gordon's not the first one to burn his back. I know Dad carries burn ointment with him when he goes outside."

"If it's with him, we're screwed," Alan shot back, having quickly searched the utility closet in the hall. "He's out with Scott and Brains, and they're not going to be back until later."

The nickname that Alan used caught Virgil by surprise. "Huh?"

"Oh, that." Alan shrugged, and tried to look at though he was busy searching for ointment. "Just a joke with me and Fermat."

"Brains?" Virgil rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then gave his brother an appraising look. "Brains? Are you sure that's polite?"

"Sure," Alan replied, "it's a compliment! I mean, he's smart, isn't he? It sounds cooler than James or Mr. Wilson anyway."

Still not completely assured, Virgil simply shrugged and pointed back at the door. "Whatever. You can catch heck from Dad for it later. Right now we need to find that cream. By the way," he raised an eyebrow, "where is Fermat?"

"Reading Einstein." Alan's voice was so deadpan that Virgil couldn't tell if he were joking or not.

"Whatever," Virgil repeated with a sigh, directing Alan subtly with his hand towards the upper half of the house. "Let's check the rooms upstairs. Maybe we'll find something there."

* * *

"We can't go in there!" Virgil hissed, grabbing Alan as the younger boy moved to open a securely latched door. "That's Dad's office. We're not supposed to go in there."

"Come on, Virg," Alan replied coolly, pushing his brother away from him. "Seriously, what are we going to do, steal his files? We're his sons."

Virgil looked worried. "I don't know about this."

"Gordon needs that cream," Alan responded emphatically. A quick flick of his wrist had the door open. "Besides, I want to see what's inside."

"That's what I was afraid of." Following his brother into the study, Virgil was surprised to see a distinct lack of . . . nearly anything in the room.

A large mahogany desk sprawled out in the center of a vast study, open to the sky on one side by large picture windows. Filing cabinets lined the walls, but only a few scarce papers - most of them blank - actually lay out on the desk.

"Neat freak, isn't he?"

Virgil laughed and punched his brother playfully in the arm. "Dad always likes to say that you're like Mom, not him. She must have had a horribly messy room when she was your age."

The two spread out and quickly surveyed the room. It didn't take long for them both to discover that there was not much in the way of medicine lying around.

"Where is it?" Virgil was about to tell Alan that it was time to leave, when his hand brushed lightly against a protrusion in the back wall. Curious, he turned around, bent down, and studied carefully the door handle that extended from the white plaster. "Weird."

"Huh?" Alan walked over, saw the handle, then crinkled his nose in confusion. "There never used to be a door in here. I remember; Dad used to take me in here when I was really little."

"It looks new." Gently, so as not to disturb anything else, Virgil took the handle in two of his fingers. A light tug snapped the handle forward, revealing a crack-line in the wall that formed the outline of a door. "There _is_ a door here."

The two boys looked at each other for a long moment, confusion evident on both of their faces. It was not normal for their father to hide things from them, and the presence of the mysterious door suggested just that.

"Do we go in?"

"No." The words jumped from Virgil's mouth. "No, we go find John."

* * *

"Hmm." Studying the door carefully, John shook his head, a motion that sent his blond locks falling into his eyes. "This is really weird."

Behind him, Virgil and Alan both nodded in agreement. "We thought maybe you'd know about it," Virgil sighed, throwing his arms up in the air. "Now we've got a mysterious door, a brother with sun-stroke, and no lotion."

"We've got a mess," Alan summarised, shooting his brother a superior look. "A big mess."

"If you needed lotion you just needed to ask me," John muttered absently, reaching into his shirt pocket with his left hand. He pulled out a long thin bottle of ointment, and tossed it in Alan's general direction. "I burn something horrible; it seems to run in the family. Alan, why don't you take it to Gordon."

When Alan began to once again make a face, Virgil laughed and gave his brother a gentle push in the direction of the door. "We'll wait for you, don't worry."

"You always make me do things," Alan muttered darkly as he left the room, "and you'd _better_ not go without me."

John shook his head, and continued to stare in curiosity at the wall. "Don't worry, we're not going anywhere yet. Truth be told," he turned to face Virgil, "I'm almost scared to open it. Who knows what's back there?"

"Dad does," Virgil responded immediately, his face placid. "Alan's right - I don't ever remember him having another room connected to his study. This must be something new, and it must be something important."

"It must be work." John squinted and tried to see through the hair-thin crack in the plaster. "Maybe it's something top-secret."

"I don't know about that," Virgil replied, walking over to have a look himself. "If it was something top-secret and it was actual mechanical stuff, it would be at the compound. If it was paperwork, it'd be in his desk."

John didn't want to admit it, but he was beginning to agree with Virgil. It wasn't like Jeff Tracy to keep secrets from his sons. He would have mentioned if he was keeping work material at the island, just like he always did over lunch. Jeff trusted his sons explicitly, more than anyone else in the world.

Decided, John stood up and took the handle in his hands. The steel was warm to touch, which made John wonder if perhaps there was some sort of power grid running behind the wall.

"Do we go?"

"Yeah." John nodded, trying to maintain a calm air about him even though he was in truth quite scared of whatever it was that lay behind the door.

* * *

Leaning over John's shoulders so that they could see, Alan and Virgil peered down a long and winding corridor that seemed to progressively fall into the side of the island itself. John braced himself in the doorway, his hands pressed against the warm steel arch that separated the world of the study from the world of the gloom beyond.

The three of them, Virgil in swim trunks, Alan still decked out in his sleeping boxers and shirt, and John dressed in a snappy work shirt and pants, made quite the scene.

Silently, John fumbled about in his shirt pocket until he found a small utility flashlight on the end of a long cord. He flipped it on and directed the beam about the hallway. The light cut straight through the gloom, uninterrupted by dust or other particles. There was no visible end to the hallway.

"This is too clean to be an older hallway," he muttered, unsure of why he was bothering to be quiet. "There would be dust and mildew if it were an older passage."

Nodding, Virgil reached out a hand to rub the smoothed wall of the corridor. "These are pretty smooth."

"Laser cut," John confirmed, feeling the rock with the palm of his hand. "I think it's granite."

Carefully, as if testing for some hidden menace, John reached out his foot and laid it on the stone. When nothing jumped out at him, he relaxed visibly and began to walk down the long passageway. Virgil trailed closely behind him, his eyes just peaking over John's shoulder.

"This is like Indiana Jones," Alan offered, following his brothers happily into the darkness. "Like in the Temple of Doom, when the rock falls from the roof-"

"If this were like that," John snapped sharply, turning to glare at his brother, "then I would be pancaking on the floor. Don't even suggest making me run."

"That's what you get working at a desk. What happened to being in shape? You were a couple of months ago."

John snorted in an irritated manner, and continued down the hallway. "Shush."

"Indiana Jones works at a desk, and he can run."

"Alan, you're not helping me any." John shook his head, stopped, then turned to face Alan again. "Know what? Indiana Jones is made up, fictitious. He doesn't exist. He's like a super hero - he can do whatever he wants."

A laugh escaped Virgil's mouth, echoing over and over again down the hallway. "I can just picture John in tights."

"Ha ha!" Ignoring John's frustrated glares Alan began to howl in amusement. "What would his name be?"

Virgil arched a thoughtful eyebrow. "Hmm."

"Indiana John!"

"Alan!"

"GI John!"

"Virgil!"

"Little John, man in tights!" The pair offered the last one in unison.

"STOP IT!"

John's last comment fell oddly silent, as did the group. His words had suddenly amplified to twice their normal volume, echoing huge amounts compared to what had happened earlier. Unsure of what caused the sudden change in acoustics John waved his flashlight in an arc above his head, noting the sudden expanse of space.

Girders flashed at him from a height that he could only guess at, while stalactites jumped out from the sides of unfinished walls. The air was warm, but for the inside of a mountain it was quite obviously air-conditioned. The soft whirring of a power plant confirmed John's initial hunches of a power grid.

"There must be a light-switch somewhere," he muttered, waving the flashlight around. The beam bounced off what appeared to be boxes and steel beams, until it came to a stop on a solid wall of rock. Carefully, so as not to trip, John made his way through the mess until he could lay his hand against a wide metal panel. He caught a metal protrusion in his hand, and gave it a gentle prod.

The lights came on instantly, emitting from high-power beams from what appeared to be large LCD panels built directly into the roof.

"Holy crap."

John didn't even bother to correct Alan's profanity. The outburst from the youngest Tracy pretty much summed up everything that John felt upon seeing what the room actually looked like.

A huge sprawling cavern stretched before them, reaching from the tiny doorway all the way to what appeared to be an underground river system on the far side of the opening. Massive beams supported the ceiling, and miles worth of cable stretched and connected into almost every piece of metal. The entire room glowed with a surreal light, as though it had been crafted out of some miraculous material that was made with stardust.

Finally finding his voice, John shook his head and continued to stare in awe at the spectacle. "What is he _doing_ down here?"

Virgil, his expression also awe-struck, simply shrugged. He reached over and picked up a piece of machinery from the nearest work bench, flipping it over and over in his hands, trying to figure out what it was. "Making stuff. At least it looks that way."

"These boxes are from work." Pointing at a large, securely packed steel crate, Alan flipped a piece of hair from his eyes and attempted to peer past the lid. "There's just more parts in here."

"Tracy Industries," Virgil confirmed, tracing a finger along the part that he held, where the name of the company was etched directly into the steel.

"This must have cost a fortune," John decided, taking a mental tally of all of the packaging in the room. "There are at least a hundred crates here, all big enough to carry a car engine or more."

"There's more over here," Alan called, having walked over to what appeared to be an outcropping in the rock. "Shit."

"Alan! I don't know where you're picking this stuff up, but it stops right now." Giving his brother a disciplinary glare, John walked over and peered around the corner himself. He nearly caught the expletive before it left his mouth. Almost. "Shit is right."

At least a thousand boxes of different sizes lay in what appeared to be a sunken bunker. Row upon row, stacked end upon end, they filled the entire sub-cavern. Many of them were cracked open, most of them were untouched, but a few of them were strewn about the ground near the entrance, as though someone had half-dragged them into the main room.

"Now I know where Dad has been going with the plane," Virgil offered dryly from beside John. "He's been carting this stuff back and forth from the factory."

A very large thought hit John smack in the face at that moment. "Geeze," he whispered, turning to Virgil, "I'll bet that Scott knows about this."

Virgil's eyes went wide in surprise, and in what seemed to be irritation. "I'll bet that he does too."

"Why didn't they tell us?" Alan asked, poking at finger at the nearest crate. "I mean, I don't even get why this is all down here."

A long sigh escaped John's lips, and he leaned carefully against the granite wall. "Listen," he began, "I don't know what Dad is doing either. I'll wager a guess, though, that Scott and James Wilson are involved. Whatever it is, they aren't telling us kids about it because they don't want anyone else to find out."

"Why not you, though?" Virgil asked quizzically. "I mean, okay, I could see maybe not telling Gordon and Alan and I, but who are you going to tell? You're not exactly a kid, John."

"The less people that know about something the better," the older Tracy responded, gazing about, still slightly shocked at the massive size of the entire underground facility. "I don't know what he's doing. But he doesn't want anyone to know about it."

"That's why we're here."

The three boys twirled around, only to find Gordon standing at the entrance to the cavern, supporting himself heavily against the steel beam. His face was pale, but there was no longer sweat pouring down his face from fever.

"Don't you get it?" He walked over to his brothers, took a look in the storage bay, and shook his head. "If he's trying to do something secret, he couldn't do it at work, or at our house. It's why we moved. I knew there was something screwed up from the start. He lied to us."

"Maybe it _is_ for work, Gordon. Maybe it's some sort of project. That could be why James is always over here."

"Maybe, John." Gordon gave a short laugh, though there was no happiness in the tone. The words were bitter, forced out between his teeth and clenched jaw. "So once again, Dad put work ahead of us. But hell, what else is new? He's always done that. Why would things be any different now?"

John opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when he realised that he didn't have anything concrete to say. He didn't have to, though.

"Gordon," Virgil said quietly, "we would have moved schools anyway. I don't think he did that for selfish reasons - he really did want to help us."

"Not me," Alan muttered, too quiet for his brothers to hear.

Virgil's voice was enough to clear up Gordon's mind. Of any of the Tracy brothers, Virgil's opinions seemed to carry the most weight. Between that, and the shock of finding the underground cavern, Gordon didn't look as though he wanted to argue the point any further. "I guess." Throwing his hands up in the air, Gordon turned around and gave the cavern a quick looking at. "Geeze, there's a lot of stuff here. What the heck is this place?"

"That's what we've been trying to figure out," Virgil replied evenly, "before you came down and started trying to fight with us."

Gordon's expression turned apologetic. "Sorry. It's just hard when Dad seems to be working behind ours backs."

"You've got a sunburn," John explained, "they make people irritable when they have them. I know; I get horribly moody when I burn."

"He's like a red version of the Hulk," Virgil added jokingly, though his voice was warm. "Watch out, John's on the loose."

"Ha ha." Gordon's eyes suddenly locked on something in the distance. "Is there another way out of here?"

"Why?"

Pointing towards a large sheet of metal on the far wall, Gordon turned to face John. "That looks like an exit of some sort."

"It looks like a hanger door," Virgil explained, squinting so he could see. "It's like the one where we keep Tracy One, only bigger. Cripes, this place just keeps getting bigger and bigger!"

"I'll bet the Tracy One hanger and this cavern are connected," John thought out-loud, "it would make sense. The door would be over by the river system somewhere."

As the four boys tromped over to the bay door, Virgil rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. "I am horrified. How many hours have I spent in that dinky little hanger fixing that dinky little plane, when he has this monstrosity of a bay already built down here?"

The hanger, which it clearly was when viewed from a closer distance, was unlike anything that any of them had ever seen before. The gigantic door stretched a good hundred feet at least towards the ceiling, and a plain number, one, was etched and painted onto the steel so that it cut across the opening point.

"One," Virgil muttered quietly to no one in particular. "I wonder if there are other hangers somewhere."

Not hearing Virgil's words, John was busy looking over a complicated instrument panel built directly into the wall. "There must be an open switch here. It looks like the power supply feeds directly into the drive for the door." He flipped a switch, only to have all of the lights go out in the entire bay.

"John!" A chorus of voices cried out in unison.

"Guess not." The lights came back on. "Maybe this one." He jumped backwards as the doors began to open. The movement was noiseless, as though they were running on a frictionless surface.

Once the doors were half-opened, a set of roof set spotlights flipped on, bathing the next chamber in a deep blue glow. Virgil, Gordon and Alan nearly fell over when they finally laid eyes on what stood in the chamber.

"A much better guess," John muttered, turning to face his brothers. "So, what's up? More storage containers? Mini-airplanes?"

Virgil's mouth opened and closed several times, his face strangely white. "Airplane," he finally choked out, "a very big airplane."

Before the four boys lay an immense rocket bunker, built of concrete and stone into the very floor of the hanger itself. The center of the floor bunker was carved out, leaving a large gaping hole where exhaust could escape during takeoff. The craft was tall and metallic, with wings that were folded delicately into its sides, and the tip of the ship reflected an odd auburn colour onto the walls of the silo.

"Rocket," Alan corrected, gazing up in wonder at the apparently finished ship that lay in front of him. "Look at the huge engines. This is so sweet! It's like on TV. Maybe Dad's a spy or something and gets to fly in his own rocket ship!"

Virgil nodded dumbly in response, still too shocked to say anything in response. None of the boys argued the point, for the presence of the ship itself was more farfetched than any story of spies that Alan could weave. They all understood quite well their father's profession, and though he often spoke of supplying rocket parts to companies like NASA, he had never mentioned owning a ship of his own.

"You'd never see something like this on TV. It's a scramjet," John explained, his own voice awe-struck, "with some sort of conventional rocket engine built in. I've never seen anything like this except in conceptual drawings. I don't even think the military has something like this. I know we sure as heck don't at NASA." He took another look at the ship and absently shook his head. "_Damn._ What the hell is he _doing_ down here?"

Even Gordon looked extremely impressed, though he was not generally one to care about anything related to machinery or engineering. "Yeah. No wonder we haven't seen Dad for the last few years." He walked forward into the chamber, tilting his head up so that he could see to the top of the silo. "This thing is a monster. What the hell does he need it for?"

"He's a spy," Alan repeated, drawing a dark glare from Gordon.

"Dad? A spy? Seriously, Alan, think about it. If Dad is a spy, then I'm Flash Gordon. Just wait. When Dad comes back tonight I'll _make_ him tell you." The redhead turned towards his older brother and raised an eyebrow. "Right, John? John?"

"Ah." John came up from behind Virgil and Alan, and made his way to a long workbench that was set up beside a fifty-foot tall work ladder. "That explains much."

"Huh?"

Picking up something from the table, John gave his brother a half-amused grin. "Here, you can use this." He tossed something at Gordon, which the ginger-haired teen caught easily.

"Oh, man," Gordon muttered, his own face becoming slightly jovial. "They must have been doing welding down here. That explains why they needed the cream."

"Welding?" Virgil looked shocked at the idea. "Dad, maybe, but are we implying that Scott has been involved? I don't think he even knows what a _wrench_ is." He shook his head, muttering in dismay, "welding. Welding. No wonder they needed the cream."

"I wonder what it's made of," Alan wondered, walking up to the ship. "It must have taken them forever to put it together if they're getting it in those little boxes!"

His senses suddenly jumping, John reached over and tried to grab hold of Alan. "Hey, wait a minute." Stories of top-secret organisations and their penchant for security raced through his mind. "Alan!"

A soft ringing noise sounded just as Alan's hand made contact with the craft. "Crap."

The four boys turned to look at each other as the entire cavern burst into the noise of sirens and the flashing of strobe lights. Without warning, the strong overhead lights of the silo flipped off, and the doors slammed closed. The strobes faded out, to be replaced with a dull blue glow that seemed to emanate from the craft itself. Too shocked to move, the boys didn't find the time to leave the silo before the launch cylinder sealed.

A loud and resounding boom echoed through the room as the magnetic latch locked the blast doors.

"We are _so_ screwed."

No one bothered to add anything to Gordon's one-liner.

* * *

**A/N:** Cliffhanger! Ah, how I do love cliffhangers. :) I am so evil sometimes. Thank you, once again, to Ariel D for beta reading this for me! Thanks for fending off the comma monster. ;)

Reviews! Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter:

**Leap of Fate** – Hey, glad to hear from you again! It's good to hear that you're enjoying the story. Now, about Virgil . . . he will be in the story more later on, but I'm currently about half-way finished writing a short story that's just about him and Gordon. Chronologically, it happens right before this chapter, so it should fit in nicely. :)

**Marblez** – I know, I honestly wanted him to be one too. :P It just didn't want to happen . . .

**Ariel D** – I know that I'm doing something right if you like it. :D Thank you.

**ladc** – Absolutely, he'd better make it up there sometime. ;) On a side note, I remember reading that Scott went through the same thing when he applied for the air force, because of the time that Jeff had spent working there in his younger years.

**thunderbirdgirl** – I love reading multiple chapters at once – more bang for the buck:D

**zeilfanaat** – Naw, it couldn't be those. ;) Side note: I love Cry Wolf, especially the part at the end when Scott ends up in the barn. My sis and I have tossed around the idea of making a t-shirt that has TV John on the front (looking really happy) with the words "You little buggers! If you call this station again I'm going to kick your sorry little asses!" and the little kids on the back screaming, "Ahhh!". I have the weirdest sense of humor.

**andrewjameswilliams** – And he _was_ offered a pretty nice job. I mean, they could have made him the janitor:o

**miz greenleaf** – As I mentioned above, Virgil does get a short story, and Scott comes into it more later on. Just look out for the chapters with Penelope. ;)

**Assena** – Nah, I had no idea that you liked Gordy. ;) Actually, he's been growing on _me_ ever since I started writing this story. I didn't like him much at first, but I really enjoy writing him now.

Okay, I'd like to make the answer to your next question a little bit more noticeable in case anyone else is curious.

**_Why did I name Brains "James Wilson"?_** Two reasons:

I wanted to make the nickname something special that was given to him by the boys. After reading this chapter you'll have seen why, which makes this a/n a little bit late in the coming. ;) I thought it worked into the story better this way, and helped to solidify the relationship between Brains and the Tracy family. It's like his letter of acceptance into the boys' club.

I found that calling him Brains – especially at the beginning – made him more of a mysterious enigma figure than I liked. I'm trying to avoid making any of the characters seem superhuman, and by giving him a normal birth name it helped me to make Brains seem a lot more like a normal guy that just happens to be brilliant on the aside. :D I've found out now that he does have an 'official' cannon name other than Hiram Hackenbacker. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. ;) If I had the chance I'd give him a name that doesn't start with J. There are too many of those running around . . .

Catch next chapter, "Lucy's Thunderbirds", for the conclusion of this little two-part saga. (Don't worry, it's not the end of the story.)

_FAB!_


	17. Lucy's Thunderbirds

* * *

_DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to Thunderbirds, nor to I challenge those rights in any manner. This story is for entertainment purposes only, and no profit is to be made. Also, Star Wars is the property of George Lucas and Twenty-First Century Fox; no copyright infringement is intended there either._

* * *

**Lucy's Thunderbirds  
December 2017 **

"D-d-d-dad!" Fermat was nearly in tears by the time that Jeff, Scott, and James arrived back on the island. The security system had triggered alarms on all corners of the house, sending the entire place into a giant lockdown that only Jeff was able to break with a special access key that he carried with him.

By the time that the trio had actually turned off the system and had made it in the house, Fermat had been waiting for them at the front door. "The house! It went crazy!"

Taking Fermat in his arms, James gave Jeff a concerned look. "T-t-t-this is not good."

"Where are they?" Scott, standing in the lounge beside the couch, picked up a sand-covered beach towel. "It looks like they were in here not that long ago."

"G-g-g-gordon burnt himself," Fermat explained, having calmed down enough to finally speak coherently. "They were looking for burn cream."

Scott immediately looked at his father, his expression grave. "They couldn't have found it."

"They did all right," Jeff replied grimly, beginning the short jaunt up to his office. "They must have. There's no one else here to set off the proximity alarm in the silo."

"But we weren't going to tell them yet!"

"Well, they already know," Jeff snapped, sending Scott back a step. "There's nothing that we can do about it now, except tell them the truth."

"F-f-f-fermat, you'd better come with us." James took his son by the shoulder, and directed him towards the study. "There's something that we need to show you."

* * *

"Got a three?" 

"Fish."

Gordon rubbed his face, and reached over to take a card. "Dammit Alan, playing Go Fish with you isn't any fun."

"Not my fault that I'm good at it and you're not."

"We should play poker instead."

"Definitely not." John's tone left no room for argument.

Gordon, Alan, Virgil and John were seated in a semi-circle on the floor of the rocket hanger, a deck of cards set messily in between them. The three older boys still had most of the cards in their hand, while Alan had nearly all of his cards already paired up and laid down on the floor.

"Just be thankful that I had these cards," John interrupted cheerfully. "Otherwise we'd be reduced to turning the lights out and telling scary stories around the welding torch."

"Ha ha. Funny." It was a legend in the Tracy family how afraid Gordon had been of the dark when he was younger. "Just what I need. Something else to wet my pants with other than pool-water."

A low boom sounded in the silo, echoing around the steel cylinder until it finally faded into non-existence.

"Looks like they're home."

All four boys looked at each other, then - as one - dropped their cards onto the floor. Wordlessly, John gathered them up, replaced them in the box, and stashed the package back in his pocket.

Attempting to get back at John for his crude jab earlier, Gordon asked innocently, "So what else do you have in there? Food? Chocolate? Photos of your girlfriend?"

"Sticks to beat younger brothers with," John replied casually, an evil grin curving his lips just enough to make his face look sinister. "When they're becoming annoying."

Gordon knew better than to believe John, but just the same he backed away a foot or so from his brother. He had thought the same thing the past year and had ended up on the floor with John's hands wrapped around his neck.

Without warning, the silo door cracked open, and the blue glow of the cylinder was meshed once again with the sharp white glare of the surrounding cavern. Four figures stood in the doorway, a group of black forms set against a background of intense light.

No one spoke for a long moment. It was as though all sound had been taken away along with the action of the doors opening.

"Sorry about hiding the cream," Scott finally ventured, his voice honestly apologetic. "I didn't think anyone would be silly enough to actually burn their back again."

"Hey!" Gordon spat back viciously, obviously already irritated at having to spend a long set of hours stuck in the launch bay.

"Well, you did a good job of hiding it," John replied, placing a hand over Gordon's mouth so that his hot headed younger brother couldn't continue to speak. "I think it took us all of two hours to find it."

Sighing, Jeff rubbed his temples wearily with his fingers, then gazed about at his sons. "I suppose you'd like to know what this is all about then."

"Maybe," Virgil snorted, folding his arms. "Generally people don't keep rocket ships at their beach house."

"And they don't have body crushing corridors of doom built into the walls!" Everyone looked at Alan, who shrugged and muttered, "Never mind."

"Tell us the truth," John suggested evenly, his voice calm. "From the beginning. No lies, no deceptions. Just the truth."

"The truth," echoed Jeff, thinking hard. "The truth. All right boys, but you might want to grab a chair. This could be a long story."

Looking around, and discovering there were only three chairs in the room, John rolled his eyes and prepared for what was certain to be an onslaught of yelling. "Guess I'll sit on the floor."

* * *

The moment – him seated in a chair, with his children placed in a circle around him – brought back a flurry of memories to Jeff Tracy. If the situation were not so tense he would have likened it to one of the many times that he had read a bedtime story to the boys. Their eyes, so wide with curiosity, were more suited to the faces of children half their age. He could look into the faces of each one of them, and he did not have to look long to find something different. 

Scott, already part of the conspiracy, sat in the corner, his arms folded across his chest, his face as impassive and serious as if he were about to receive a mission briefing.

Virgil, whose mind by the looks of it was already formulating a hundred theories before Jeff even spoke a word, leaned on the workbench and absently fiddled with a spare part.

Alan, his face still reflecting the awe of a child as he half sprawled on the second chair, looked halfway between excitement and worry, as though he did not know what to expect from his father.

John, always calm and contemplative, sat cross-legged in the center of the floor, his face as open-looking as his mind probably was to his father's words.

Gordon, taking the third chair, his face wearing the expression of a child who had been disappointed by his parent, and now wanted to know why.

"Do you mind if I . . ." Jeff's words trailed off as James nodded from where he stood by the ship itself, his son Fermat standing closely by his side.

"N-n-n-no, go right ahead."

Where to begin? How did a person describe a secret that had been kept for seven years? How did he justify it to begin with, to a group of boys who likely thought that they had not been a part of the secret because of their age, or because their father did not trust them?

"When your mother died, I felt responsible for her death. There was no logic behind it, as there was nothing that I could have done. Eventually I realised this, but I couldn't lose the feeling that I needed to do something."

There went John again, his face ever so slightly revealing enough of his thoughts to make an impact on his father. He obviously remembered the moment, almost seven years ago, when he had managed to shake his father from his mourning. The blond tried to hide it, tried to keep his face passive, but Jeff could see it in his eyes.

He was not the only one who still carried scars from that time.

"It was a few years before I managed to solidify in my mind exactly what I wanted to do. I wanted to bring your mother back."

Now Virgil shook his head, pain echoing across his face, as he heard and began to understand his father's dilemma.

"But I couldn't. I had learned that already. So I wanted to do something else, something that would have made your mom smile." He hoped that he didn't sound too removed from the experience. It had been so many years, that retelling the story was like telling the story of an entirely different person. "I wanted to do something that would make the situation right in the future."

Then the children at the playground had struck.

"I came up with an idea, one day, completely out of the blue. I thought it'd be great to have an organization that would be on hand to respond to disasters, an organization that would have the equipment needed to save anyone, anywhere in the world. It would use the best technology out there – the fastest aircraft, the most advanced space technology . . . And there'd be no service charge, no fees. There'd be no priority based on race, no calls turned away because of ethnic origin. It'd be the organization that should have existed when your mother was alive."

The idea brought a spark to Alan's eyes. The boy had always been fascinated with cars and airplanes, and even the hint of such a miraculous group obviously had grabbed his interest.

"I didn't know what to do. The idea had such merit, but I had no idea where to even begin. So, completely on a whim, I sent out a memo to my engineers at work, to see if any of them had any ideas. One paper caught my interest."

His eyes locked with James' for a moment, and the two nodded and smiled slightly at the memory. Two conspirators, having coffee on a cold winter day, discussing their families, their dead wives, and the plan that had begun to form between them.

"I hired James Wilson to help me. We shared similar experiences in life, but, more importantly, we shared a similar dream of the future. He designed the equipment, and I supplied the finances to bring the ideas to paper. The further the project went along, the more that we realised that we had to keep it a secret. The ships, especially the ships, contained technology that would be deadly in the wrong hands. And if anyone else found it, it would only delay our work. So we kept it a secret."

There came the Scott Tracy nod of approval, the acknowledgement of a young man who was pleased with his father's decision.

"It's almost finished now. Seven years after your mother died, we finally have something to show for our work."

A load literally fell off his shoulders as he told the boys what he had wanted to tell them for years.

"There are five ships, four of which will be piloted by Scott and myself. One, the one behind you, is a craft that can exceed fifteen thousand miles per hour. It can reach an accident scene anywhere in the world in less than an hour. Scott will be flying it, and he'll be expected to scout out the accident scene when he gets there and report back to headquarters, which is located in my study.

"Two, a large cargo-hauler powered by a nuclear power, will ferry the supplies and equipment to the actual rescue site. It's not as fast as One, but it makes up for its speed with its carrying abilities.

"Three is a full size reusable rocket, and we've used it to put the fifth ship up into orbit. It transports five and requires two to fly, so James and I have done all of the flights together.

"Four is an underwater transport designed for water search and rescue. It fits nicely into Two's cargo hold."

"Five . . ." Jeff stopped for a moment, and tried to think of a short and simple way to describe the final ship. "Is a space satellite, designed to tap into world communications and find those people who are in trouble. It has some of the most advanced spy equipment in the world, and subsequently is the most secretive part of this organization. If the government were to find out about it, we'd be ruined. The computers are powerful enough to hack into a government computer in less than thirty seconds, and the radio arrays are sensitive enough to pick up CB broadcasts from the other side of the planet."

"Then there are a dozen smaller units that do everything from fighting fires to pulling cars from pits. The equipment is all there, most of it completed and ready to be used. We were planning on starting operations in January, just after the end of the holiday season." Jeff took a deep breath. "We were going to tell all of you then, when we could finally hang up our hats and say that we were finished. We wanted it to be ready when we showed you."

James nodded, though the boys could not see him from where he stood.

"But you managed to find it before then," Jeff finished quietly.

His freckled face creased into a frown, Gordon took the entire speech in and said nothing. It was impossible to read what was going through the boy's mind, to know whether he was angry or impressed, upset or delighted.

"What do you call it?" That was John, always practical, always thinking up the logical questions that no one else would remember.

It was as thought he were a child, sharing with a parent a finger painting, and was afraid yet excited to hear their reaction to it. Somewhat tentatively, Jeff opened his mouth and replied, "International Rescue."

The picture had been shown. Now it was time for the critique.

"Do you have any questions?"

* * *

"Japanese contractors?" Virgil echoed as his father lead the group of them around the facilities. 

After having drilled their father for the more nitpicky details of the operation, the boys had quickly decided that a tour of the cavern would be a better way to explain the operation them. They were currently in front of the hanger doors to the rocket hanger, and were making their way past it once again, onto the rest of the hanger that the younger boys hadn't managed to get to.

Jeff smiled at Virgil's curiosity, inwardly laughing at how much his sons still had to learn about the world. "The best in the business, Virgil. It comes with the culture."

"How so?" John came up beside his father, his face bright and his tone inquisitive.

"They have a privacy policy based upon honour, which is much more than money can ever buy here in the Americas." Reaching out a hand to feel the laser cut walls, Jeff recalled how long it had taken the crew to dig out the primary cavern. "And I did tell them the truth, to a certain extent."

Scott snorted behind Jeff. "Of course, only to a certain extent."

"I simply informed them that the place would be used for research, and that we needed a large area because my engineer was claustrophobic."

That brought a smile to John's face. "I don't know if I can relate to that specifically, but I do understand phobias."

"I-i-it's not actually that bad," James offered, "but it w-w-w-was a good cover for us."

"So they believe that you're spending an exorbitant amount of money to keep your men from going insane?" The idea nearly broke Virgil's face with a grin. "That's brilliant. I never thought of you as the kind of person who'd lie to a bunch of trade workers."

"Well, he didn't tell us about this."

Turning to give Alan a stern look, Scott shook his head in an attempt to ward off a debate that would likely degrade into a fight. "Don't start, squirt."

"So after the contractors," John broke in, "then what?"

Jeff thought for a moment then snapped his fingers as he remembered. "Well, during that time - as I said in the silo - James had worked out most of the initial designs for the craft. So we distributed work orders to many of the groups at Tracy Industries. Small stuff, to start, but specific items that we couldn't just grab off the rack."

"I-i-i-i, uh, _tried_ to use a-a-a-available materials," James added quietly, "to help avoid suspicion. O-o-o-only very special part designs were e-e-e-ever given to the shop. Some of the designs ended up changing, t-t-t-t-though, like the reconnaissance craft. I-i-i-it was originally going to have ramjets, b-b-b-b-but I was able to come up with a much faster and fuel efficient turbo-scram design."

Shaking his head, Virgil gave his father an appreciative look. "So you assembled it as much before time as possible, then carted the parts over here and built the craft yourself."

"That's about it," Jeff sighed, "though it's been a long trip, I'll tell you that one. But thanks to Scott-"

Virgil beat his father to the comment. "You quit, didn't you?" he asked in a subdued manner. "The airforce. To help Dad. You've been home the entire time since Christmas."

"Yeah." Scott's eyes went distant, as if he were seeing somewhere that the others weren't. "It wasn't really to my liking anyway. Besides, we are a family, and Dad needed help. I couldn't leave him out in the cold."

Before Scott could continue, James stepped forward and quietly interrupted, "M-m-m-mister Tracy." He gave Scott an apologetic look, then turned to Jeff. "I have an experiment running in the lab that I need to check on. I, uh, t-t-t-think I'd better go do that."

"Fermat can stay with us if you like," Jeff offered.

"I want to go with Dad." The younger boy seemed unsure about staying in the hanger with a bunch of older boys that he did not really know. "Please?"

Shrugging, Jeff laughed and replied, "I don't mind."

"T-t-t-thank you." Giving his employer a grateful smile, James took Fermat by the shoulder and directed him down in the direction of the underground river.

Though there was no need to be silent, an odd hush fell over the group as the Wilsons left. Jeff had a hunch about what was going on. Their curiosity saturated, the boys were likely now turning to an issue that needed to be dealt with – the fact that they had been kept in the dark about something so important. And now that James and Fermat were gone, they were free to talk to their father in private.

For a time there was only the noise of running water and the power generator. Then, out of nowhere, the second youngest Tracy spoke. His hands clenching at his sides, Gordon met his father's gaze with as unwavering a look as he could muster. "Why didn't you tell us?"

John immediately stepped up beside the redhead, his face creased in a frown as though even the thought of an argument caused him pain. "Gordon, don't start a fight again-"

"No." Jeff held up his hand to silence John from speaking any further. "No, John, he has a right to know. You all do." The elder Tracy stood quietly for a moment, composing his thoughts until he was sure enough to share them with his sons. "God knows that I wanted to give you the chances that any boys in this country have, but I had never planned on dedicating myself to something else at the same time. This operation means a great deal to me, and once the idea planted itself in my mind, I couldn't get rid of it. But I didn't want to disturb your lives any further, Gordon. I tried to do both. That's why I built this entire operation to function with only three people. Never did I want you to feel obligated to do what Scott has done, and," he gave Scott a compassionate look, "I thank him with all of my heart for his sacrifice. But I can't expect the same of the rest of you."

"Dad," Gordon replied shortly, "you should really listen to Scott. He's right, we're a family. And you can trust family." A hint of colour was coming to the boy's cheeks, and his voice rose ever so slightly in pitch as he spoke.

That particular statement struck a sensitive spot in Jeff's heart. He had wanted to keep the secret, for sure, but he had never ever doubted that his sons were _capable_ of keeping it. "It wasn't a matter of trust-"

"Trust us," Gordon continued fiercely. "If you can't trust us, then who can you trust." He shook his head, and a bitterly cold laugh escaped his mouth. "I can't believe you did all of this without telling us!"

The red colour was clearly evident across the boy's face, and the sharp and angry tones that he spoke with cut deeply into Jeff. He had expected Gordon to be angry, had anticipated it with a small dose of regret for many months, but nothing could truly prepare him for the verbal lashing that his son was giving him. The explosion had obviously been building since Gordon had first entered the cavern, and it was now being let loose with destructive force on the man responsible.

He didn't want to let it escalate to the point that he feared it would reach. "Gordon, enough. I've already explained to you why I did what I did, and I-"

"Shut up!"

The words, and the manner in which they were spoken, nearly knocked Jeff over. The part of him that was a parent wanted to yell back at his son for his disrespect. Jeff had put up with Gordon's lack of control for many years, and maybe it was time to teach the boy that he couldn't go around yelling at people simply because he was angry. He had explained his actions well enough, hadn't he? What more did Gordon want?

"Gordon Tracy. I will not have you speak to me in that manner!" Even as he spoke the words, words that were expected given his position as a father and given his son's outburst, they felt very wrong. Even if the delivery was harsh, Gordon had hit the nail on the head – as much as he wanted to deny it, Jeff knew that his son had a right to at least think every word that was coming from his mouth.

Jeff Tracy had lied to his children, and there was no escaping that. Though the other boys had taken the situation very well, he did not doubt that the same that was going through their own minds. He had kept a secret from them that any good father should have shared out of trust.

And yet . . . Jeff could not shake the _other_ feeling from his mind, the one that had told him so many years ago to keep the secret from his sons. Maybe he had done the wrong thing, but what would the right thing have been? Would it really have been any better to tell his children, only to curse them with having to keep a secret that no _man_ should have to keep? He had lied to his children, yes, but it had not been for selfish reasons. That, more than anything, kept Jeff from completely giving in to and accepting the boy's claims.

He could still discipline Gordon, for sure, what would it really solve? It would only make the situation worse. Jeff realised there was no escaping from the course that he had plotted. Gordon was angry, and even if he did reign his son's temper it, it would not change anything in the short term. An argument would only escalate the situation.

"In this manner?" The boy shook his head in disbelief. "In this manner? What the hell do you want me to do, after all that you've already done? What the hell are you expecting, that I grin and pretend that none of this has ever happened?"

Perhaps it would be better to cradle his own pride, and accept his son's words for what they truly were. It wasn't right, but Jeff knew, from hard experience, that Gordon only ever calmed down when he realised in his own mind that he was past the point of being logical.

"I used to be a real pain to this family," the redhead continued, his voice continuing to gain in pitch and volume as his emotions were let loose. "Because I didn't want to believe what you were telling me. I didn't want to be your son, and I didn't want to listen to what you said. But you've ended up being right about a lot of things, and I started to think that maybe I could trust you. I thought that maybe you _were _right after all. That you weren't out to get us, that you were trying to help us . . . and then you had to go and do this!" The boy's voice was seething with anger, and the red colour of his face revealed just how deep that feeling went. "What you're doing here . . ." he stopped suddenly, breathing hard with the fury of his words, his eyes suddenly confused as if his thoughts had left him.

Jeff waited quietly, trying to hold in his own anger that was building inside, and he steeled himself for what he knew was inevitably coming. He fully expected his son to say he hated him, to declare that he would be leaving home, to say something that would hurt his father as much as could be emotionally possible. He waited for the blow . . .

And it never came.

Finally, the colour still vivid on his cheeks, Gordon shook his head, opened his mouth once, close it, then tried one last time to speak. His voice was hoarse from yelling, and yet forcefully quiet compared to before. "I'd like to be a part of it." The words were little above a whisper. "Please Dad, give me the chance to. I'm your son. You've already screwed this up once, so why don't you do it right his time? Trust me." The last few words were spoken with so much emotion that Jeff didn't even know where to begin.

It was at that moment that Jeff thought he saw what was happening to his ginger haired son. He knew that somehow it was due to the presence of the ships, to the organization that Jeff had so painstakingly created. Whatever Gordon had been expecting to find in the cavern, and whomever he had thought his father to be, was not what he had found. From the look on the boy's face, he was still very angry. And yet, the anger was now undirected, fading in its strength as the boy was unable to find a point or a person to aim it at. Gordon looked so unsure as he spoke, his eyes reflecting a young man who truly did not know what to think.

Jeff the tyrant, the man that had haunted Gordon's adolescent years, perhaps did not exist. He was not the father that Gordon knew from the present, or from his nightmares as a teenager – it was the father that he remembered from a time not very long ago, when everything had been different.

And yet, what had that father done again but put something else ahead of his own family? The project was so very special, so very important to him, and he had expected his children to embrace it with the same blind joy that he had.

But Gordon wanted to _join,_ Jeff thought suddenly. He wanted, as angry as he was, to be a part of the dream that had born in Jeff's mind many years ago at a school playground. Underneath all of the confusion that was inherent in someone his age, Gordon had obviously come to some sort of unconscious decision. He had weighed the facts that were before him, and had somehow found the strength to forgive his father's foolishness, and to even accept that perhaps the idea had some merit.

Jeff could see it in the way that his son looked. The boy's eyes stared at a place not in the cavern, but instead to some other realm, where an emotion other than anger held fast.

"Gordon," Jeff shook his head, trying to maintain his composure. "Listen, I don't want you to throw away your futures-" The words were not harsh, but instead filled with the kind of emotion that Jeff felt deep in his heart. It surprised him, for Jeff had silently become so angry with the boy that he thought an explosion on his end was inevitable. Then again, if Gordon had been able to push aside his anger in order to follow the better, the more empathetic course, then so could he.

Jeff's words were a futile gesture at best, for Gordon simply shook his head and replied, "Do you think I'm stupid? I know you don't." The words wavered ever so slightly as he spoke. "But this is one time when I think you're wrong about us, Dad. Sorry, but maybe I want to be trouble for you one more time." The boy's jaw tightened slightly, and he closed his eyes. "This isn't going away, and if it's going to be here forever, then I want to be part of it too. Are you going to deny me that?"

The words unspoken were powerful indeed, for Jeff only had to think for a moment to find the missing end of the sentence: _"After you've denied me so much else?"_

His own mind a jumble of thoughts and emotions, Jeff found himself able to settle on a single solitary feeling that grew from his chest.

The time had come to accept a decision that he had in fact made long ago. Yet he had to accept it, and with it, accept the position that he had put his entire family in with his venture. There was no escape from what would soon happen. And – out of selfishness or something else – Jeff could not keep himself from feeling relieved. It _would_ be a family operation, whether he wanted it to be or not. From the very first moment of conception, from the first moment that his children had demonstrated their unwavering love for their family, International Rescue had been blessed and cursed to be so.

It was love that had created it, and it was love that would hold it together and allow it to prosper. After everything that he'd done, after everything that Gordon had done in return, there was no denying the bond that had grown between them as father and son.

Somehow, almost unconsciously, his legs carried him forward, and Jeff grabbed the redhead in his arms, crushing him to his chest in as tight a hold as he could manage. He held the boy close to him, finding hope in the fact that Gordon did not push away, but instead let himself lean against his father's body as he had once done as a child.

"You little rascal," Jeff finally choked out, and a laugh escaped along with the words. "You little rascal. How do you always manage to do that without getting grounded?"

"I dunno," Gordon whispered, in the voice not of a frustrated teenager, but of a child who knew he had erred. "Guess maybe I'm lucky."

A tiny smile once again crossed Jeff's face, and he looked up and into the eyes of the rest of his brood. "I suppose everyone else wants to join now."

"I'm finished school in a few months," Virgil offered quietly, his brown eyes looking hopeful even in the dim light of the cavern. "Why can't James take me on as an apprentice, like I wanted, and I can help him with the ships? I'd rather do that, something worthwhile, then spend the rest of my life designing commercial jets or something like that."

Jeff looked halfway between touched and panicked. "Virgil." He raised his hands, and the boys fell silent. "I appreciate your concern. And," Jeff sighed, defeated with the knowledge that he never would be able to win, "I would be happy to have you on the team, once you finish your schooling."

His eyes growing wide, Virgil grinned and shook his head in shock. "Dad, you don't know what this means to me!"

Raising his left arm in the air, the elder Tracy smiled as another of his sons joined him in the hug. "I can guess," Jeff chuckled, rubbing his son's head and ruffling his hair. "I can guess. And," he added, "I hope you know how much this means to _me_, Virgil. I really would love to have your help."

"What about me?" Gordon piped up again, slightly irritated that he had been cut out of the conversation. "When can I join?"

"After you finish school, like Dad said," Scott offered coolly, much to Gordon's dismay. "You too, Alan. Don't give me that look. Figure out what you want to do with your life, and then offer that service to this organization."

"If I pass," Gordon muttered softly in response. "You're expecting an awful lot."

Jeff gently placed a hand on Gordon's shoulder. "Gordon, I couldn't be more proud of the fact that you've stuck with your classes this long. Just stay a bit longer, try a bit harder, and you'll be finished. Besides," he glanced in the direction of the river. "I have something that you might be interested in."

* * *

Night had fallen, and the Tracy boys found themselves camping out with a campfire on the south beach. Fermat was off helping his father in the silo, which meant that the five older boys had the night to themselves. 

Virgil sat beside the wood, tending the flames with a prodder, while Gordon took great pleasure in tossing marshmallows into the inferno. The white blobs bounced along the splinters until they hit the heat, where they burst into large balls of burning sugar.

"You're wasting the food," John declared over the top of his book, from where he was stretched out on a sleeping bag. "Honestly, there's a better use for sugar than that. Why don't you try eating it?"

Gordon gave his brother a superior look. "I learned in chemistry class that burning sugar makes little carbon balls," he paused as a marshmallow exploded, "that look like dog poo. Isn't that cool?"

"Gross, maybe." Sighing, the blond-haired Tracy looked back down at his text. "Now I know why you have a good mark in that class. The stuff is right up your alley. It's rank with immaturity."

Smirking proudly, Gordon chucked a marshmallow at John. "Here, have one, before I burn them all."

The marshmallow disappeared quickly behind the book. "Well then, dispose of them before I change my mind and decide to rescue them."

The word rescue caused an immediate change in the boys. Even Scott and Alan, who were trying to drown each other with a polar bear swim, stopped, turned, and walked back down to the sleeping materials. None of the boys had mentioned the ships or the headquarters since they had gone topside. It was almost as if no one wanted to.

"Who'd have thought," John finally sighed, putting his book down so that he could look over at the other boys. "Of _anything_ that I could possibly imagine-"

"I'd never have expected it," Virgil finished, taking a break from his stoking of the fire. "Not that."  
"No." His voice very quiet, Gordon tossed the last marshmallow into the flames. It flared up, then burst into pieces. "I didn't either."

Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Scott walked over and placed himself beside Virgil and Gordon. "Dad wanted to tell you, but I wouldn't let him. He cares so much about all of you that he was scared to screw up your lives even more than they already have been, and I thought that telling you would do just that. I don't know what would have been better, telling you, or lying to you and keeping the secret."

"So it wasn't because we're kids?" Alan asked suddenly from the side.

"Maybe a little bit," Scott admitted. "I guess we made a mistake by not choosing to trust you, but more than anything we didn't want to place that _burden_ on you."

"It's okay," Gordon replied immediately, his voice hoarse from the smoke of the fire. "You were probably right. It would have been a distraction." A lopsided grin crossed his face, and he crumpled up the empty bag and threw it at Scott. "Besides, I can't really be mad at you guys. I wanted to be – man, I wanted to take a strip out of you and Dad!"

"We noticed," the older boy added dryly.

"But I just can't. Who could be mad about something like that? Hell, who'd have thought."

"I was surprised when he first told me," Scott admitted. "Honestly, I thought he was crazy at first, until I saw what him and James had already completed. They had put so much effort in to it, spent so much time designing everything to be just right . . . there was no way that I _couldn't_ help."

"The pool was a nice touch," John interrupted suddenly, his mouth lifting ever so slightly at the corner. "I know that _you_ just _had_ to have the jet launch from under the pool."

"Of course not," Scott argued, though the attempt seemed only half-hearted to the other boys. "We had to work around the existing structure of the house, and the best place for the launch silo just happened to be under the pool."

John's eyes glittered in the firelight. "Then explain to me why the palm trees fold down when the cargo-hauler taxis down the runway."

A grin coming to his own face, Scott shrugged sheepishly. "That was Dad's idea." A crisp laugh escaped his mouth, and it soon turned into a rolling peel of laughter.

The humour was contagious, and soon all of the boys were laughing along at their father's expense. All of the earlier tension faded away until the mood was no different than that of any other campfire party on any other beach in the world.

"Though you could have come up with a better name," Virgil observed in between chuckles. "International Rescue. It lacks an artistic ring to it."

"I like it."

Everyone turned in surprise to see Alan, a determined expression on his face, folding his arms in defiance across his chest.

"I think it sounds important. Besides, that's what it's supposed to do. Rescue people."

Shaking his head in surprise and amusement, Virgil raised his hands in defeat. "Okay, then, I guess it's fine with me."

"We _would_ like a name for the ships," Scott put in, drawing the attention away from Alan once again. "In the air force, our squads had names that we used when referring to the different ships."

"Like in Star Wars," John offered, "they call themselves Red Squadron during the trench run. Red leader, Red two."

Scott nodded. "Yeah. It makes things easier. I'd like to come up with something like that."

Crinkling his nose, Alan looked as though he were constipated with thinking. "How many were there again?"

"There was the turbo-scram," replied Virgil, "the one in the silo that you said you were going to fly. And the cargo ship, the big one in the bay that's beside the river system. Dad's ship."

"Don't forget the submarine."

His voice amused, Scott muttered, "Don't worry, Gordon, we won't."

"There was a big rocket ship," the youngest Tracy suggested, "the one that dad wanted to paint red."

"Do we count the satellite? It doesn't have a person on it." Gordon's voice didn't sound convinced.

"Of course." Smiling, John lay his head back so that he could gaze up at the sky. "Remember what dad said - every ship plays a vital part of the whole. Without the satellite, he wouldn't know if anyone was in trouble."

"Five ships." Scott's voice echoed with the noise of the rippling waves. "What do we call them?"

"Something for Mom," Gordon immediately offered, "something she'd like. Dad's doing this for her, after all. He said so."

"She liked tea."

The redhead shook his head. "Alan, that doesn't count. We can't call them Tea One-"

"I like it."

Gordon snorted, and continued to shake his red locks about. "John, Alan doesn't need to be encouraged."

"What about a Phoenix?" The sound of Virgil's voice halted the argument cold. "Mom liked mythology. Phoenix's are a symbol of death and re-birth."

"No." His voice strained, John shook his head. "No. Mom's dead, and this isn't going to bring her back."

"I wasn't suggesting that-"

"John," Scott interrupted, "just doesn't want a ghost to haunt us. He's right, we shouldn't pick something that's so obvious. But I like the myth idea. Is there anything else that you can think of?"

Virgil, silent, shook his head. "No. Not really."

It was Gordon who spoke next. "In English class, we've been studying Native American Literature."

"Really." Scott sounded impressed that Gordon knew _anything_ about his English class. "This is the class that you're failing, right?"

Gordon continued, ignoring Scott. "There's a creature from _their_ mythology, a bird that flies."

"Birds do that."

"It's almost like a god, but not really. It controls the weather, I think, because it throws bolts of lightning at people that are evil. It protects the innocent. But people think they're gods, because they look so amazing when they show up." He shrugged apologetically. "It's something like that."

Scott didn't have an immediate response. "What's it called?" he finally asked at length.

"A thunderbird." Gordon looked almost embarrassed at his own words. "Sorry, I know it probably sounds stupid."

"Thunderbird." The word echoed from Virgil's mouth, as he tossed the idea about in his head. Turning to look at Scott, he shrugged and smiled. "I don't know, sounds okay to me. It's better than phoenix."

"It does have a ring to it," John responded, "I could get used to it."

"It's Scott's choice," Virgil stressed, looking in his older brother's direction. "And Dad's. They're the ones that built the ships."

Shaking his head, Scott muttered, "No, it's everyone's choice. I have a feeling that it won't just be me and Dad working on this anyway." He turned to face Alan, and gave his brother a warm grin. "Hey, how about it squirt?"

"Maybe if you stop calling me squirt," Alan replied, his eyes narrow.

"Done and done, then." Scott clapped his hands together, then let them fall to his side, as he became more serious. "Thunderbirds. Lucy's Thunderbirds."

The sound of their mother's name caused the boys to immediately become silent. They never spoke of their mother in such a personal way, and they had never even heard Jeff refer to her as anything but 'Your Mother' for a very long time. To hear their mother's name, spoken so casually from Scott's own mouth, was shocking.

"Gordon is right," Scott finally continued, "we're doing this for Mom, and we should always remember that. They're Lucy's Thunderbirds, because she would have been first in line to fly them alongside Dad. She would have loved what he's doing." His voice began to waver slightly as painful memories came to the surface. The next sentence, spoken so quietly that the other boys barely caught it, was raw with emotion. "I'm sorry, Mom. I'll have to do it for you."

Quietly, so as not to disturb that calm that had come with the falling of the sun, the other boys gathered in a group and wrapped their arms about their brother, who was now crying openly on the sand. It had been years since Scott had even so much as whimpered about Lucy, but the combined emotion of excitement of the night and the memory of his mother were too strong.

The image of Scott Tracy - football quarterback, class valedictorian, air force captain – weeping into his hands was so powerful that his brother's did not even consider poking fun. Embarrassment flooded across his cheeks, but he could not quench the tears that poured down his face. The emotions of all of the years that he had spent consoling his family, holding their fears and pain inside of him, flowed freely from his eyes.

The other boys, who keenly felt Scott's pain as much as he did, held their brother tight. For a long moment, all thoughts of age, courage, or masculinity were put aside. There was no room for pride amongst the other emotions and feelings that were so keen and poignant.

"We won't tell anyone else that you cried," Gordon eventually offered, in an attempt to bring his brother out of his gloom. "We'll just say that you fell and broke your leg."

"It won't happen again," Scott replied, his voice determined, though tears still broke down his cheeks. "There won't be anything to cry about again. I won't let anything happen to you guys."

"Of course not." After all of the times that Scott had stood up for him, and all of the times that he had sat with him as a silent support on his worst days, John understood how much Scott held on his shoulders. It was only because of Scott that the family had hung together for as long as it had. "We're in this together."

They were only silent for a moment, until Alan chimed in, "I just thought of something. Fighter pilots always abbreviate stuff." His voice was smug sounding. "Guess what?"

"What?" Gordon played along.

"Guess what the abbreviation of Thunderbird is?"

Gordon thought for a long moment then banged his head hard against the nearest object, which happened to be Virgil's shoulder.

"Ow."

"John," Gordon complained, "Alan's getting his T One after all."

When the thought finally registered in his brain, John couldn't stifle the chuckle that was desperately trying to escape his lips. "I guess so."

Soon all of the boys were laughing, and there were no more thoughts of Lucy Tracy. Their minds had moved ahead to something more tangible - the official launch of International Rescue in one month's time.

* * *

**A/N:** I am very sorry about taking so long with this chapter – midterms have been kicking me in the rear, and I wanted to make sure that the chapter actually worked the way it was supposed to before I posted it. On that topic, I have to give a huge shout of thanksto Ariel D, who beta read it not once but twice for me, and was able to give the most incredible suggestions to me both times. If this chapter sounds coherent and reasonable, it's only because her red pen (of editing +5!) has graced it. Thank you! 

And thank you to everyone that dropped a review for the last chapter. Once again, I'm _so_ sorry about leaving you dangling off the cliff for so long!

**Assena** – No kidding (about Gordon saying whatever he wants)! Yet, I think that he keeps the stuff that's actually important locked up inside of him somewhere. Meh, you'll see. :) lol I'm too much like Scott to _not_ like him. Oh – _opens lock to TB1 silo_ – there you go. ;)  
**moonlightbear** – Thanks! It's great to have you reading. :)  
**andrewjameswilliams** – I guess you know now. ;) When I wrote their reactions, I just had to sit down and figure out how I'd react in the same situation. I think I may have actually been too _polite_ with the language that I used.  
**Math Girl** – Arms getting tired from hanging onto the cliff yet? ;) Hey, good guess about Jeff! I thought that they would have some sort of security system, so Jeff would know as soon as he came home that something was wrong. Besides, I'm not sure how brave Fermat would be in that type of situation. lol  
**Ariel D** – Thank you thank you thank you! I can't say that enough. :D  
**zeilfanaat** – You're right! Just think if we all had Gordon's sense of humour, we'd all be walking around with buckets on our heads. ;) Oh, and Ariel can't flaunt because I haven't sent her the next chapter yet. lol  
**ladc** – Here's hoping that Jeff's reasoning was sound. That said, I'm really expecting people to side with both Gordon and Jeff, because – like in most real life situations – this little issue isn't flat and one-sided. Neither of them is really right or wrong, it's just a huge mess all around. But the Tracys are a resilient bunch. :)  
**thunderbirdgirl** – I keep having to insert more of the younger boys to appease my readers. :) I could write a hundred pages about John and never notice that the others are gone . . . thanks so much for your kind words!  
**scarlettWALES** – Man, you changed your name and it had me thinking at first, 'Who the heck is this? Do I know this person, or is this a new reader?' lol :D The Penelope thing a hint? You bet it is. :) It takes a lady in pink to one-up a man in blue. ;) Gawk, I shouldn't have said that; the uniforms are going to be movie uniforms . . . :S

* * *

I hope you all tune in next time for "Rescued", which hopefully needs no introduction. :) Yes, it's the chapter that people have been asking about. 

'Til then,  
_FAB!_


	18. Rescued

_

* * *

DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to Thunderbirds, which is the property of Carlton Television and Gerry Anderson. This story is not meant to make profit – it is for entertainment purposes only._

* * *

**Rescued  
January 2018**

"Dad!" Scott's voice banged harshly off the walls of the house, as did his hands as he tried to take a corner at nearly a full run. "DAD!"

From his study, Jeff could already see that something was happening. His computer was registering a code-red signal in the bottom right corner of the monitor, and the speakers chimed a continual alert siren that had thrown him from his work the moment that it had gone off. A quick password input into the computer had the entire floor changing around. Giant hydraulics moved the unnecessary furniture into the ground, and lifted up extra computer components and monitors that were the heart of International Rescue.

"I hear it, Scott," he yelled back, turning just in time to see Scott barrelling into the room. "Did you call-"

"Yeah, Brains says he's coming." The casual nickname given to James Wilson by Alan over Christmas had stuck, and all of the Tracy boys seemed to be using it. Even Jeff found it rolling off of his tongue. "He just has to close down some stuff in the lab, and then he'll meet us in the main bay."

Reaching over to tap a key, Jeff brought up on the monitor the main Thunderbird 5 control screen. "It looks like it's nearby. Five has tracked it to an area east and slightly south of the Philippines."

"Sub-tropical?" Scott was busy pealing off his beach clothes, and trying to dig in Jeff's office closet all at the same time. With a grunt, he yanked hard and pulled out a graphite grey flight suit. "Doesn't sound too bad."

"Weather reports on the news show a storm in that region," Jeff answered, pointing a finger at the screen that he had also pulled up. "That's probably the area."

"We can just head over there and see what's up." A boot came flying in Jeff's direction as Scott tried to do too many things at once. "Shoot, can you pass me that?"

"I suppose I should find my stuff," Jeff replied, tossing the boot back to his son. "I know I kept the suit in here somewhere."

Raising an eyebrow, Scott stopped squirming long enough to give his father a long and appraising look. "Your old flight suit? Dad, you'd better hope that it still fits."

"I'll pretend that I didn't hear that," muttered Jeff, giving his son a slightly insulted look. "Be thankful for what you have, Scott." Reaching into the closet, Jeff pulled out a rumpled flight suit. "Good Lord, I hope this fits too."

* * *

It was the moment that Jeff Tracy had been waiting to happen for almost eight long years. He was seated in the main flight seat of Thunderbird 2, the large green cargo ship ready for take-off, his hands clutching the control yoke in a way that they hadn't done since he had flown a space shuttle. The entire ship pulsed beneath him, as the atomic reactor core fed continual power to the engines and the electronics on-board.

Thousands of tonnes of steel lay underneath him, just waiting for the chance to be used.

Jeff toggled a switch, bringing up the main flight display and communications screen. "Scott, what's your status?"

The speaker crackled for a moment, until Scott's voice came through clear and unaffected by interference. "I'm a go," he replied crisply, in the trained manner of an air-force officer. "Engines are green, structural is good, and the stratosphere is begging to be burned."

"I copy," Jeff smiled, bringing the main drive systems online. "Two looks fine. Brains, you there?"

"H-h-h-here, Mr. Tracy."

"Patch in the co-ordinates of the distress call to Scott's computer. I can follow him from there."

"D-d-d-doing so now."

A distinct rumbling noise shook Jeff in his seat, and he turned his head so that he could see out the window in the direction of the Thunderbird One bay. Though the doors were closed, he could imagine what was happening behind them.

"Systems are green," Scott was saying over the roar of ignition, "fuel is stable. I'm opening the roof." The noise subsided somewhat. "Lift-off is a go, Dad. I'm bringing the main rockets online."

"Good to hear." Sucking in his breath, Jeff toggled the ignition switch. The entire ship seemed to jump forward as the drive platform began to creep towards the hanger door. Just as the ship's nose reached the wall, the door cracked open to reveal the sparkling waters of the Pacific. A long concrete runway led out to a lift-off point, where deep bunkers in the soil allowed the ship to fire its engines directly onto the ground. A long row of palm trees bowed down as the plane passed, as if in honour of its magnificence.

"This is like flying a dragon." Scott was still talking over the comm, though his voice had lost most of its formalness. "I'm activating the main scrams." A loud whoop of pure enjoyment sounded over the radio. "Dad, you should see this! The acceleration and handling are just amazing."

"T-t-that's good to hear," Brains offered over the comm, his voice happy sounding. "I-i-i-i tested it rather thoroughly to make sure that it would be to your liking."

By that point, Thunderbird Two was in position on the outside take-off platform. Another flip of a switch had the ship tipped upward on its end, its large chemical rockets directed into the concrete silos. "I'm ready for take-off." _It's now or never_, Jeff thought, and he cued in the final ignition sequence.

The force of the cargo-hauler firing its burners sent Jeff back in his seat in a way that he hadn't been in years. The lift-off was truly awe-inspiring, as the green rocket pulled away from the island and climbed into the high blue skies of the South Pacific.

_This brings back memories_, he thought fondly, remembering having felt the same feeling during a shuttle lift-off.

"Scott, what's your ETA?"

"Ten minutes at the max," Scott replied, "pretty good. I'll be there in enough time to sort everything out. The anti-radar coating on the craft seems to be working. I haven't received any kind of sensor warning from Thunderbird Five at all. What's your ETA?"

"At least twenty." Frowning, Jeff tapped the read-out screen that displayed the power index. "I'm sure it could be lower. Maybe Brains can have a look when we get back."

* * *

Typhoon Sophia was busy tearing a five hundred kilometre wide path of destruction through the southern islands of the Pacific. The storm, which had lessened somewhat, still carried hurricane strength, and was situated over top of a small archipelago group a few hundred klicks to the east of the Philippines. The population, made up of natives of the island, and descents of British and Spanish settlers, were a reasonably developed community in terms of technology, but unprepared for the brute force that Sophia was threatening to unleash.

By the time that Scott arrived at the main island group, it was apparent where most of the damage was. Readings from Thunderbird Five showed that the smallest landmass, a volcanic ridge similar in composition to Tracy Island, was covered on the one side in a huge in-motion mudslide. The villagers were trying to escape the island on boat, but Scott could see a group of homes near the ridge that were too far from water for that escape route.

"Thunderbird One to Thunderbird Two, what's your ETA now?"

Jeff's voice crackled through the storm interference, "About fifteen, though I might be able to get there in ten if I really push her."

"We have a situation. It looks like we'll need the rescue platform."

As the storm intensified, the radio contact between the two ships began to fade. Though Thunderbird Five, high above the level of the atmosphere, was easily able to cut through the interference, the computer-controlled craft could only do so much to compensate for the white noise. It was better than a manual system, but to completely eliminate the noise, constant updates would have to be patched into the system until it was flawless. It was another thing that Brains would have to work on in his free time.

"Thunderbird Two, do you copy?"

"I hear you," the comm whistled, "I copy."

Satisfied that his father understood, Scott began to bring Thunderbird One into its landing cycle. As the ship slowed from Mach speeds, the horizontal wings began to fold out and the ramjets slowly began to give out. As the island fast approached, the jets cut out completely and the ship reverted back to its chemical drive.

Throwing the reverse thrusters online, Scott searched for a landing spot, found one on the outmost beach, and gently took the ship down to the sand, its landing thrusters leaving scorch marks and glass prints on the beach.

He could see people milling about outside of the ship, some of them fleeing, some of them stopping to point in wonder at the ship that had miraculously appeared from the clouds. It was just like Gordon had said, Scott thought in amusement; here he was, bringing a Thunderbird down from the clouds, amidst a storm of lightning and thunder.

"Two, I'm downside. I'm going out to find out where we can be most of help."

* * *

It took longer than Scott had hoped to convince the crowd that he was not a hostile force. A good portion of the population spoke English, but most of the people only had a small grasp of the language. The concept of a rocket ship was foreign to them, and it was almost ten minutes before they would even approach the ship.

But, once the crowd understood that - for whatever reason - he was there to help them, they were willing to follow his directions without question. Finished directing the people to continue their evacuation, Scott had sought out someone who knew the island better than the others. He was grateful to find an individual that was not only helpful, but also well versed in the English language.

"Sorry about this," the head of the town, a man by the name of Tristan Comers, apologised to Scott, as the two of them made a quick walk-through of the nearly abandoned town-site. "We weren't expecting any help, and definitely weren't prepared for someone to show up in a spaceship. We haven't exactly heard of your organization."

"It's not a space-ship," Scott explained, trying to set the man straight. "Thunderbird One is a reconnaissance craft that my organization uses to scout out a disaster zone before our cargo-hauler comes in. And International Rescue is quite new, so we don't advertise our work. That's why you haven't heard about us yet."

Shaking his head in wonder, Comers lead Scott up a small hill that overlooked the rest of the island. "Most of the lower village is safe and can be evacuated to the neighbouring islands before the eye of the storm hits. I'm concerned about those people up there. The roads are treacherous as a general rule, and the rain has probably turned the slopes to mud."

"Mud on one side, water on the other," Scott muttered, assessing the situation. "When did the mudslide start?"

"About half an hour ago. It might have been earlier, but we didn't notice it until then." He expression grave, Comers asked, "Can you do anything?"

A smile coming to his face, Scott nodded in grim determination. "Yeah, I think we can."

* * *

Jeff could see as he approached the island that things were becoming bad, and quickly. The eye of the storm was only thirty minutes out, and the wind shear outside the craft was bordering on suicidal for anyone flying in it. As he prepared to circle the landmass, waiting for some sort of signal from Scott, the comm clicked and Scott's voice came blurting out.

"Dad, there are people stuck up on the ridge. There's a mud-slide in progress, and we need to get them out of there before the eye hits and the wind becomes too high to use the equipment."

"Copy, that," Jeff directed the craft towards the island's peak, "I'll be there in a couple of minutes."

"Hurry." There was no disguising the worry in Scott's voice. "I don't think we'll have much time."

* * *

His worst fears were confirmed as Jeff brought Thunderbird Two down at the foot of the mountain. The green craft dwarfed the smaller Thunderbird One, which was already coated in a heavy layer of mud and soil and could hardly be distinguished as an air-worthy craft at all. It was the mud that worried Jeff - it was in the air, in the water, and rapidly falling down the side of the rock face.

Scott met his father at the landing ramp, his hand outstretched and holding a single sheet of paper. "Things are very bad."

Taking the paper, Jeff quickly looked it over, his face falling as the truth dawned on him. "We'd better make this as quick as possible. You'll have to suit up on the way there."

"Roger." Scott was already sprinting up the loading ramp, into the bowls of the Thunderbird. "I'll be ready."

Re-entering the ship, Jeff didn't even bother to strap himself in properly. Wasting no time, he engaged the lift-off boosters, and sent the craft hurtling straight towards the group of huts on the side of the mountain. "Scott," he asked, toggling the comm switch, "do they know we're coming?"

"I think so. Mr. Comers said that he would try and contact them via the short-wave system."

If only we had the time, Jeff thought, we could try and contact them ourselves. But they didn't have the time to waste, and all of Jeff's attention was toward flying the ship through an insane level of wind shear.

"We're coming up on the site." The mountain loomed closer as Jeff spoke and soon Two hovered a hundred feet directly over top of the upper village. A quick glance at his sensors caused Jeff's face to fall even further - the mudslide had reached the homes, and the lower roads were no longer passable. The people of the town were huddled on the upper balconies of the houses, but even those soon looked to be covered by the dirt.

The rain was so thick that it almost created a white wall in front of the windshield, and without the radar, Jeff was sure that he would have hit the mountain. Once again, he wished that there were a way for the ship to relay him much needed observational information without him having to look for it.

"I'm ready, Dad."

"Lowering platform." Carefully, so as not to bump the ship around in the gale, Jeff let go of the yoke with his right hand and triggered the activation switch for the winch. The ship creaked as a door opened on its bottom, a large enough space for two men to stand side by side without too much difficulty.

Ignoring the adrenaline that was running through his veins, Jeff kept the ship calm and began to lower the rescue platform - with Scott onboard - down into the storm. On the screen, the platform rocked back and forth in the invisible wind.

"Hold, dammit," Jeff muttered, hoping that the cable would be able to withstand the stress. "Hold."

"I'm down!" Scott cried suddenly over the comm, and Jeff immediately stopped the winch.

"How many?"

"Five here. I think I can take them all."

And so it begins, Jeff thought, listening intently over the comm as Scott explained to the residents what they were supposed to do.

* * *

On the far side of the world from where Sophia was ravaging, night had fallen on Cape Canaveral, washing the facility in a deep twilight. The glow of the moon behind the buildings cast a dark silhouette on the surrounding land, the gentle outline of the structures faintly visible from afar. Outside there was no disturbance but the sound of the southern wind tickling through the leaves of the occasional tree. Inside the case was mostly the same, as almost all the daytime employees were in bed or at least resting in their apartment complexes.

John Tracy was sitting at his desk and in the middle of writing a very important post-launch report when Alicia Berkman came barrelling into his office at full speed. The woman's hair was slightly dishevelled as though she had been running, and her face was flushed. It was obvious that she was not accustomed to jogging around, and the exercise had taken something out of her.

Glancing over at the clock, John saw that it was approaching midnight, and he wondered why the woman was up so late.

"You have to see this!" she managed to gasp in between breaths, causing John to set down his pencil and gaze up from the diagrams that he had been haphazardly sketching.

"Huh?"

"On the television!" Rolling her eyes at his confused gaze, Alicia took John by the arm, guided him around his desk, and pulled him out the door. "You've heard about that typhoon heading toward Southeast Asia, right?"

John nodded, still lost as to what Alicia was so excited about.

"I happened to be working and caught it during a coffee break, but people have been popping in and out from their apartments to watch it. It's turned into quite the party."

The two entered the main cafeteria, the same room where Jeff Tracy had spent six hours waiting for his son to finish the training exam. A group of at least two dozen people – most of them dressed in housecoats - were gathered around a small television set that rested on the counter. One man reached a hand to turn up the volume, sending the voice of a newscaster booming around the room.

"Lisa, could you describe for the viewers again what you are seeing?"

"What's happening?" John finally asked as Alicia pushed a path through the group so that the two of them could see the small screen.

"Just listen."

"Well, Vic," a different voice – a female one - continued on the monitor, "the residents of this small island were in serious trouble until half an hour ago. They were expecting international relief support to arrive, but before that happened an incredible mudslide began to cover the far side of the island, putting some homes in danger."

"Mmmm." His brows furrowing, John absently rubbed his chin as the facts began to slowly sink in. "Disaster, huh?"

"Big one," Alicia muttered, "you should have seen the amateur footage. The mountain was just going."

The female voice continued, " – but when rescue crews arrived, they were surprised to find another group already there. This mystery group, according to the mayor of the settlement in danger, has refused all photographs, claiming secrecy, and any attempts to film their craft have been unsuccessful. It appears as though they are using some form of electromagnetic field to block all outgoing television signals. Radio is being allowed in order to aid with the rescue efforts. Because of this, we are running audio only at the moment. I've been told that it might be possible to run a video tape out of the disruption area, but that may prove to be difficult given the intensity of the storm."

John tried desperately to hide the smile of incredulity that was trying to force its way onto his face. Still, the corners of his lips curved up ever so slightly. He glanced over at Alicia and silently thanked the older woman for pulling himself from his office. This was something that he truly did not want to miss.

_Thunderbirds are a go._

"Lisa, what about the ships?"

"Vic, they are unlike anything that anyone has ever seen before. Two craft, both utilizing unidentifiable technology, are being used for the rescue. I've spoken to some of the men with the United Nations rescue team, and they are unable to give an explanation for either the appearance or the existence of the craft. I've also been told that Pentagon officials are already looking into the matter but have made an initial statement saying that the craft are not to be perceived as a threat to American security. More details will be given later."

_That's a relief, _John thought to himself. _Wouldn't want them to get pulled in by our own peace keepers._

"Vic, the larger craft, which is a green colour and is about the size of two aircraft carriers, is currently using some sort of platform to pick up the stranded civilians from the tops of their homes. I can just make out from my viewpoint a lone individual in grey helping the people onto the platform."

_Scott, _he observed silently, a small knot of worry forming in his stomach. _Scott, be careful. That house could go at any moment._ Though he could not see his brother, he could imagine Scott, drenched in rain, stretching his arm out to catch the hand of the last stranded person on the home. He could see in his mind the house giving way, the foundation crumbling and the people being swept into the sea of mud.

"Brave man," Alicia commented out loud, drawing confirmations from most of those present. "I wonder who these people are?"

John absently opened his mouth to respond, _my family,_ but was saved when Lawrence jumped in with, "International Rescue, Alicia, they said it while you were off to fetch Tracy. It's the only name that they'll give."

The word 'Tracy' stung at John's mind. His co-workers never intentionally singled him out, but it always happened that he was never addressed in any way other than 'Tracy'. It was only Alicia Berkman, a woman that had a suspiciously kind disposition for someone of her status, who took the time out to call him by his first name. She alone seemed to have the insight to truly understand why he did what he did. She never bothered him like the others did, but instead gave him his peace, and he respected her a great deal because of that.

It was funny, John thought, how his refusal to take part in social activities made it impossible for him to truly join the group. His co-workers were largely social individuals, and though he did not fear that his actions would get in the way of his actual work, he often found himself wondering what others thought of him. From the outside, he supposed, he seemed awfully introverted when in fact he was simply dedicated to his job. Compared to his father, who had been very open with his children about his time with NASA and had revealed that he had spent a great deal of time socialising, John knew that he likely appeared to be of the non-living portion of society.

"What am I saying?" John snorted quietly, shaking his head as the television continued to blare. "I am introverted. I _don't_ like going out." But that did not stop him from needing the same attention and comfort that any other human being desired. It did not mean that he disliked other human beings. On the contrary, he cared just as much for the people caught in the mud as he did for his own family.

His co-workers did not shun him, but they had stopped treating him as though he were in their circle. He was almost like an animal on display at a circus, an animal that had no feelings and was only there to do its job. They could poke him, prod him, beg him to do tricks, but it would never happen. It was like high school all over again, only the malice was not intentional. John wasn't sure what hurt more – the intentional bullying, or the accidental pain that he was being caused by all of the kind and helpful people in the room.

John smiled sadly and looked around at the men and women in the room. They all seemed so happy, so much like a team. They laughed together, smiled together, and to a certain extent lived together. There was no place in their world for someone that didn't enjoy sharing those feelings outright. Worse than that, he suspected that they expected something of him that he couldn't give – something that his father, in his own time, had been able to share.

_What am I supposed to expect? I've learned this lesson already a long time ago. They aren't malicious people by nature. They simply don't understand. People like me are stereotyped beyond belief, treated with sympathy and shoved into a corner where we can work to our heart's content. And if that doesn't happen, then they parade us around in an attempt to mesh us into their exhibition._

Tracy. To them, he would always be Tracy, and nothing more. Surely there were more people in the world like Alicia, people who took more than a moment to form an opinion of someone, but he didn't have the opportunity or the hope to find more of them. His workplace would always be composed ninety-nine percent of the other type of human being, and that was not going to change.

John sighed. It was never going to change, no matter how many times he began and finished that same argument in his mind.

_I'll just make do with what I have, because there's nothing else to be had. If I'm going to be this way, I'm going to take the lumps that come with it. Scott was right. I've got five hooligans back home that love me. That's enough for me._

"John."

Shaken out of his reverie, John looked up into the worried eyes of Alicia Berkman.

"John, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he replied neutrally, "just a little tired. Sorry about drifting off like that."

"You work too much," a black haired man put in from the side, "why not take a night off? I mean, look at you, up at midnight working on reports!"

"Sorry, Dave, I'd love to talk, but right now I'd actually like to watch this." John laughed nervously, trying to evade the conversation altogether. "Wow, would you listen to that? Scram jets, they're saying. That's really something!"

"Yeah, and tomorrow night could be something as well. Why not come with us?" Lawrence added. The man's eyebrows raised ever so slightly in a gesture that John had quickly come to associate with trouble. "It could be fun, kid. We could hook you up with a nice lady!"

Try as he might, John could not stop the redness from seeping onto his cheeks. "Lawrence, I don't know about that . . ."

"Come on, kid, I hooked your Dad up, and look how that turned out! It wasn't that hard. I swear, your Mom was just begging to find a man. And what lady can resist an astronaut?"

John's face immediately froze up, and any warm feelings that he had in him disappeared like a train down a rail-line.

For years he had put up with all sorts of comments and prods from all sorts of people. Comments about his looks, his beliefs, his personality, his interests – they all washed over him and to a certain extent he had learned to block them out. Even if they caused him personal hardship, he never ever let it show on the outside.

But Lawrence had made the mistake of bringing up the Tracy family, and what John hated more than anything was casual and humorous remarks spoken about his parents. That, and the non-existent amount of comfort that he was experiencing after putting up with the other man's insistent efforts, took away any desire he had at all to continue the conversation.

Unable to form any words – his voice was lost somewhere amidst waves of embarrassment and pain - John simply shrugged and looked back towards the television. More than anything, he wanted to be able to curl up and disappear from the room and the ever-stinging situation. "I'm not an astronaut," he finally replied quietly, the tone of his voice reflecting keenly that he no longer wished to continue the conversation.

An awkward silence filled the room, broken only by the interspersed comments from the reporters on the television monitor. By the embarrassed looks on the faces of the other engineers, they understood somewhat why John was suddenly so cross.

"I didn't mean anything by it, kid," Lawrence chided, his voice jumping ever so slightly when he spoke. "Come on, learn to have some fun! You don't have to be an astronaut. I'll find you someone that likes," he stopped, and stared hard at John. "Well, guys like you."

"Like me?" Incredulity spread across John's face. "Like me?" _You don't know what I'm like, Lawrence. You really have no idea, or you wouldn't be pushing this topic!_

Confusion spreading on his face, Lawrence shrugged and gave John a friendly smile. "There's a girl out there for everyone, kid. Even for people like you. Listen, just give it a chance. Come with us once and we'll show you how to have a good time."

John could feel the muscles in his face tense. He knew that by pursuing the argument he wasn't doing himself any favours. It would probably be best to joke along with Lawrence – but he couldn't let a remark like that slide. So many times before he had let people stab him verbally through the heart, and so many times before he had done nothing except pad the wound after with thoughts of hope that someday things would be better. And yet, what had changed?

Nothing. And nothing would ever change unless he finally stood up for himself and said something. Scott wasn't there to protect him from the bullies any longer, no matter what type of bullies they were. He had to do it on his own. He couldn't change them, perhaps, but he could stop from them from trying to change him.

Meeting Lawrence's gaze, John took a deep breath and tried to pull from inside of himself some small speck of courage. "If you really want to help me," he replied finally, the words catching in his throat as he spoke them, "then leave me alone."

"Kid-"

The next words that left his mouth were nearly inaudible over the noise of the television. "I am not my father." With that, John turned his head, stood up, and walked out of the room without another word.

"Vic, I wish you could see what I'm seeing!" The television continued in the background.

A shocked look on his face, Lawrence raised his hands defensively and muttered, "I did nothing."

"He needs more sleep," suggested the dark haired man, and those around him nodded in agreement and offered their suggestions.

"Kid's going to burn out."

"He needs to lighten up."

"He needs a sense of humour."

"_You _need more tact," Alicia put in mildly, giving her subordinate a piercing stare and cutting the banter off cold. "Have you heard of the word, Lawrence?"

"I did nothing," Lawrence repeated insistently, "except offer him a chance to have some fun for a change. It's his own bloody fault if he's so hard boiled that he can't relax!" When Alicia's gaze did not lighten, he sighed and smacked a hand down on the table beside him. "Fine. But it won't be our fault when he shuts himself in a closet for the rest of his natural life."

* * *

Seven homes later, Scott Tracy was helping the last of the rescuees onto the platform. His eyes darted nervously from side to side as the mudslide grew higher and higher. Finally, as the final person stepped onto the steel floor, he slapped his comm and yelled, "Pull her up!"

The platform jumped about precariously in the wind and rain, and only Jeff's steady hand at the controls kept Two on course. Walls of moisture from Sophia slammed at the construct, sending the people scrambling for a hold on the walls of the platform. The eye was fast approaching, and Scott had no wish to be outside when it hit.

Clutching two tiny children at his sides, Scott kept his back to the wall and tried to maintain an aura of calm. Looking up at him, the children gazed with wide eyes at their rescuer.

"We gonna make it?" one asked in faltering English, his face dirty with mud.

"Of course," Scott replied calmly, drawing on his years of experience in the air force, trying to once again become the trusted commander. "There's nothing to worry about."

It was only when the platform finally left the rain and entered the belly of the ship that he truly believed his own words.

"One mission down," he muttered, taking a long and deep breath before moving to help the other people down. "Another billion to go."

* * *

On her way back to her office after the excitement had died down, Alicia couldn't stop herself from taking a slight detour. The woman was careful to keep quiet as she made her way down the darkened hallway, towards the ajar door at the very end. Balancing herself on the wall, she leaned her head against the metal door and peered into the office. She had expected to see John Tracy hard at work at his desk, pencil in hand, brows furrowed in concentration. What she saw truly surprised her.

His blond hair falling about his face in unruly strands, the young man sat casually at his desk, feet up on the surface, and fiddled about with a small radio transmitter. The hand-made object – it was obviously so, given the patchwork surface and crooked antenna – cackled with the odd burst of static, but the sound of a human voice was easily discernible from the noise.

"Vic, the ships have just left the area. Military craft are pursuing, but it sounds as though their radar is having trouble keeping a lock on the International Rescue aircraft."

Alicia shook her head in confusion as John Tracy smiled slightly and nodded as if in relief. She finally attributed the man's behaviour to his curiosity about the craft, and nothing more, for it was obvious that a structural engineer would appreciate the workings of the International Rescue craft.

The engineer's eyes were tired from lack of sleep, but even from the doorway she could see a twinkle in them that she had never seen in them before. He seemed content to sit at his desk forever, listening to the news reports on the rag-tag receiver.

Satisfied that John was all right, Alicia turned from the door and slowly made her way back down the hallway. It was time for her to turn in for the night, and she had several things to do before she could leave. She hoped in the back of her mind that John would finally turn in as well. As much as she disagreed with her co-workers on many things about the young man, she agreed with them that he needed more rest. He was going to burn himself out whether he intended to or not.

* * *

Finally sure that the individual outside of his door had left, John gave a sigh of relief and let his head fall against the back of his chair. He hadn't noticed the figure at first, as his attention had been focused solely on the radio. The sound of breathing in an otherwise abandoned corridor was distinct, however, and years of amateur radio work had trained John's ears to a very high level of sensitivity.

He didn't have to think very long to come up with identity of the individual. There was only one person in the department who would come to his office and not actually enter the door with some ludicrous scheme to drag him from the room. Even when she did disturb him, as she had earlier that night, Alicia Berkman was quite different from her co-workers. She respected his privacy and was almost apologetic when she disturbed it.

Unlike Lawrence and the countless others who had unintentionally prodded a sore spot.

_He doesn't know what he's talking about,_ John thought, shaking his head in dismay. _I don't want to be like everyone else. It's the same as always. Everyone wants me to change. But I finally stood up to them . . . and look where I am now. They'll never understand. Maybe I made tonight better, but what about tomorrow? I can't fight them for the rest of my life._

A tiny smile came to his lips then, as, in the back of his mind, the voice of his mother gave an echoed response.

_"I'll always love you, John. Don't ever forget that."_

And Lawrence didn't know anything about love, or he wouldn't have spoken to John the way that he had. Love was not rational, nor could it be bought or dismissed with the flick of a hand. John knew enough about love to understand that. Perhaps it was not the love that Lawrence spoke of, but the sorrow that he felt in his heart when he thought of his mother was enough to remind John that he loved her more than he loved anything else in the world. No one could take that love away. She would always be there with him, kept alive in his memories, the memories of a twelve-year-old boy that were slowly – horribly – beginning to fade.

_"I'll always love you."_

"Love you too," John whispered sadly, feeling a touch of guilt when he realised that he had spoken the words aloud.

"What a night." Closing his eyes, John decided that it was time to go to bed. He had spent long enough on the report for the day, and too many sleepless nights would begin to catch up with him. But there was still so much to think about, so much left unsettled in his mind to leave it without working it through . . . he couldn't go to sleep yet.

As John moved to stand up, he felt all of the adrenaline remaining in his body disappear. With a groan, he slumped back onto the chair and raised a hand to block the dull light of his desk-lamp from his face. Whether he liked it or not, his body was declaring itself exhausted.

_Guess I'll be sleeping here.

* * *

_

"It could have gone much worse." Water hose in hand, Scott kept busy by cleaning the thick layer of mud off the outside of Thunderbird One. The craft had made it home in one piece, but Sophia had been less than kind to its outside hull; bits of debris partially clogged the lower scrams, and the dirt was so thick on the windshield that Scott had relied almost entirely on radar to fly home.

"It could have gone much better," Jeff replied, as he scraped at the inside of the scram cylinder with a cleaning rod. "We were flying blind out there. It's a wonder that Two didn't hit the top of the mountain when we were leaving." He sighed. "I hate to see what Brains is having to do to clean her up."

"But it didn't," Scott insisted, turning to look at his father. "No lives were lost, no ships were damaged."

A snort escaped Jeff's mouth as he gazed upward into the intakes. "I might argue that."

"I think Mr. Comers was speaking for everyone when he thanked us profusely."

Jeff knew that Scott was right; the people of the island had been immensely grateful, and it was likely that many lives would have been lost had International Rescue not arrived. Still though, it nagged at his mind how ragtag the mission had become. He was not accustomed to running things in any way less than perfect. The rescue, in his eyes, had not been perfect.

"Dad?" Scott had turned off the hose, and was staring at his father, worry bleeding onto his face.

"Nothing," Jeff finally answered, going back to his cleaning. "I'm just trying to think of a way to make things go more smoothly next time."

"More people would help," offered Scott, "I think we all know that. I know that you started this with only two pilots in mind, but it needs to be expanded beyond that. Personally, I'm looking forward to this summer, when Virgil can help us out."

"That's if he wants to go on the missions. Maybe he'll just help James out."

Arching an eyebrow, Scott snorted in amusement. "Are you kidding? It's all that he talked about over Christmas. 'Just six more months, Scott. Six more months'."

"It would be nice to have another engineer running around. He could fly with me."

"And you're the best person to teach him."

Nodding, Jeff couldn't deny the logic in his son's words. "This _is_ quickly becoming a family business. Soon everybody will be involved."

"Maybe it's for the best." Finished with the washing, Scott tossed the hose and grabbed a dry cloth. "It'll give Gordon something to do."

Scott's words reflected a thought that Jeff had had during the holidays, when he had watched Gordon interact with his brothers. Of all of the Tracy children, Gordon was not blessed with an instinctive knack for understanding the natural sciences. He had no drive for subjects like English, and any other disciplines required a great deal of work for him to even crack an eighty.

But there were other things such as swimming that he excelled at. Gordon alone relied on his physical body to accomplish things - though there was no doubt that he was smart - and he looked at life from a completely different angle than his brothers did.

"He hates sitting around and thinking," Scott said quietly, "it's a waste of time to him. He likes actually going and _doing_ something. I think this would be perfect for him. I mean, it's his choice, but still . . ."

"He's still going to finish high school," Jeff replied tersely, "or he's not going to join at all. I want him to at least get that far. I've already told him that. Even if he were legally allowed to drop out, there's too much technical information related to this whole organization for him to quit taking science classes before tenth grade.

"Gordon could learn anything if he really wanted to." His voice extremely subdued, Scott spoke as if his father should already know what he was saying. "He tries damn hard to pass his classes, and he tries damn hard to please you. The kid has more drive than any of us, maybe even John."

There was a long pause, before Jeff finally spoke. "I know."

Walking over to the ship so that he could take a peak inside the engine, Scott sighed, tossed the rag, and grabbed another rod. "This thing is filthy." He met his father's gaze for a moment, then laughed and shook his head. "So, how does it feel to be the head of a top-secret organization that can't even keep its ships clean?"

Jeff smiled. "Absolutely wonderful."

* * *

_**A/N:**_ First off, I'm really sorry to all of my readers for taking so long with this chapter. I had schoolwork, my wonderful beta reader Ariel D had schoolwork, and between the two of us we had little time to think about fanfiction. :( But things have lightened up a bit, so hopefully I'll be more prompt with the next few chapters.

As a note, in case you didn't notice it in the way that the last chapter ended, Lucy's Thunderbirds is unofficially the end of Part I of the Winds of Advent. The remaining chapters (up to thirty-four at this moment, unless I add some after) focus on the development of IR until the time just before the movie. Yes, to clarify, this is officially a movie fanfic. But, please don't abandon it because of that. :) I realised, as I was writing some of the later material, that the reason I wanted to write the story is to show how the movie is not that different from the show. The ages are different, the time period is different . . . there are some new characters . . . there are some old characters not present . . . but the characters are still the same people. Scott and Penelope finally meet. Kyrano is a botanist. Gordon wins a medal and crashes a boat. It all happens. :) So, for those of you who have been waiting for these scenes, they are still coming. I promise.

A huge thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter (so long ago . . .), and to those people who also reviewed 'Midnight Musings'. If you're a John fan and haven't read it, you might want to check it out. There, my shameless plug for the day. :)

**Princess Tyler Briefs** – You don't know how ironic your comment about Gordon is . . . I don't want to say too much, except that your comment could possibly be bang on. ;) I thought Alan was a brat too, until I wrote the chapters about him later on. :)

**Moonlightbear** – Yeah, it was a bad pun. ;) Glad to see you're still reading.

**Ariel D** – Look! Look! I finally finished the edits! (grins) And I did it after I finished the essay, too. ;)

**Marblez** – (offers pompoms) Here, you might want these. ;)

**Manders1953** – I don't think there's a game for anything but the gameboy advance. (pouts) Thanks for reading, it's great to have another reader:)

**ladc **– You know what they say, beware the quiet ones. :) And yeah, John's going to show them all. This chapter is actually the introduction to the set of chapters that will place him up in space for good.

**Andrewjameswilliams** – Well, not Tin-Tin quite yet. :) That's a wee bit later, but it will happen. I have it written and finished up, I just have to post other stuff first. Lol

**Assena** – Hydrofoil yet? Nope. When? Chapters 30-33. (grins) Yes, Gordon monopolises the last few chapters of the story. And it's not going too movie verse. Just the ages and the time frame, and a few things to do with The Hood. I think you'll like Gordon's stuff. :) Sorry about the wait.

**Zeilfanaat** – Don't worry, Ariel will flaunt soon because I'll finally send her some new material. :) Have you read Midnight Musings? It's about John – you might like it. :) Oh, and just so you know, Unwanted Sacrifice made me cry again when I re-read it. (sobs)

**The** **peace** **pixie** – Okay, now that I remember who you are . . . lol! ;) Yeah, Scott's cute. He's so bossy sometimes . . .

**Math** **Girl** – Well, Scott got to fly in this one. John can't be far behind. :) And Gordon . . . well, he's a fish, you know? ;) I'm waiting for him to sprout gills.

* * *

All right, tune in next time for "Space Monitor", the first in a set of three chapters that will place a certain Tracy up in the stars where he belongs. 'Til then, FAB all! 


	19. Space Monitor

_

* * *

DICLAIMER: The rights to Thunderbirds are held by Carlton, Universal, and Gerry Anderson. This story is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended, nor should any be inferred.

* * *

_

**Space Monitor  
March 2018**

_  
Dear son, _

I hope that everything has been going smoothly for you, though I'm sure that it has. You seem to have slid right into your position, and I have no doubt that you're wowing the crew over there with your talents! I suppose that I could quote your own words - you will work where you're needed, and I guess they want you at a desk doing data analysis.

Just a word to the wise, before I talk about other things. I've never mentioned this before, but if you want to keep your sanity, stay away from the singles bars. You either get a first class fusion burn, or you end up with a girlfriend. I'm not sure which is more damaging, but I can attest to having experienced both.

It's an odd thought, to think of any of my children becoming serious with a woman. You can laugh at me, John, but for two of them it's already out of the question. It'd be awfully hard for either Scott, or Virgil in the coming year, to see anyone without risking our security. I'm sure that you understand.

But now, to the reason that I'm writing to you in this manner! I have high hopes that the postal service won't check your mail, so I think this is the safest possible manner to communicate with you.

Two months and already we have ten rescues under our belts. That's something! I feel horrible that I wasn't able to write you immediately after our little clash with Sophia. I'm sure that you heard little tidbits about it over the news. John, the entire experience makes me cringe and laugh all at the same time. It was extremely unprofessional, but I think that we're slowly improving the quality of our service. Every task that we accomplish teaches us something new or points out flaws in our systems. When you get home for holidays, remind me to show you the Thunderizer. It's a state of the art laser system that James has designed, and I think you'd like it.

So far, the biggest problem that we've been encountering is communications. James is constantly updating the satellite systems, which is helping with rescue recognition, but we're still having the issue of responsibility. There's too much for us to do during the rescue, and contact with the ground forces is suffering as a result.

We've been tossing around several ideas that could help lessen our workload while flying, but none of them have really taken. Ideally, James would feed us information over the comm, but he's not up to that task. And - this didn't surprise me to hear - he also doesn't have a lot of experience in the communications field.

Also - it all seems to be related to Five - James is having problems with the remote access systems. The satellite has a data transfer limit due to the size of the transmitter/receiver arrays, and having to communicate as well as pass rescue data back and forth is taking a toll on the systems. He's warned me that we'll probably have to stage computer repairs in a few months time. Remote access just isn't what it's cracked up to be.

If you have any ideas, feel free to share them with your father. It's frustrating to not be able to communicate with the people that you're rescuing simply because you're too busy to do so. We'll work through it, though.

And I have to comment on how well your brother is doing! John, it's as though Scott were born for this position. He's very happy with his job, and he takes a great deal of pride in it. It's a joy to work with my family, especially when they're so content!

The rest of your brothers say hi. Gordon wants me to pass on that you'd better do something really incredible with your life, to make up for what he's going to do. I told him that he'd better be joking.

I know that you're not much for writing letters, but I do truly want to hear how your work is going. If you need someone to talk to, John, don't even wait for the mail. I'm just a phone-call away.

Your father,

Jeff

A tiny smile crept onto John's face as he folded the letter and gently replaced it into the envelope that it had come in. He knew that, for security purposes, he should probably burn it, but he couldn't bring himself to. He had read it over three times since Jeff had sent it, and every time it had made him smile.

"Don't worry, Dad, I won't be going to any bars." Bar hopping was, to John, just another way to act out of line and embarrass oneself, and there was nothing that he disliked more than intentionally making his emotions and his body vulnerable to others. He had been that way since his mother had died, and nothing would change that.

The other members of the NASA team had learned it that hard way – in fact, they hadn't pressed him at all since the night of the very first rescue when Lawrence Clayton had succeeded in sticking his foot very far into his mouth.

It was funny, how his father could speak of meeting his mother in that fashion without it causing John to feel the same emotions that he had when Lawrence had spoke of it. When Lawrence had accidentally broached the subject, it had been in a light-hearted manner – and John did not see anything light-hearted about the situation. There was nothing funny about forcing someone to flirt with the opposite sex in the vain attempt to . . .

Shaking his head, John pushed the thought from his mind. The last thing that he needed was to start feeling sorry for himself for not having a girlfriend. At the moment he had neither the desire nor the opportunity to have one, and no amount of pressure from his co-workers or kind words from his father was going to change that.

"'Your father'," John muttered, laughing on the inside at the older man's seriousness that surfaced even when talking to his children. Underneath that callous exterior, John knew just how much Jeff truly cared about his family. He had not intended to hurt his son with his words and had obviously meant for them to be taken lightly. Jeff had no expectations of his son, no real desire to see him follow in his father's footsteps. The fact that he had taken the time out to write a hand-written letter, in an age of computers and e-mail, showed his compassion plainly.

And it was that emotion, compassion, which had driven John to go to the technical store and pick up a few new textbooks.

From where he sat at his desk, he could see the books stacked lovingly up on the upper half of his filling cabinet. The thick, black-coloured spines were already tarnished from one too many fingerprints. The one book that actually lay on his desk was suffering from bent corners, folded over to bookmark pages of importance.

Reaching out a hand - which was difficult, given how he was sitting with his feet up on the desk - John pulled the book towards him. He took it in his hands, opened it to the last page that he had studied, and began to read. There was other work to be done, for sure, but there were also hours in the day when John simply sat about and read for the fun of it. He had the time to spare.

The title of the book, printed in neat letters on the cover, was _Laser Communications and Computer Implementation_. It was the second book that he had read on the topic since the beginning of March, and he had another stack of them waiting to be read on the shelf. There was an almost unlimited supply of reading material available on the topic, enough for a person to eventually find out almost everything that they would ever need to know about it.

John wasn't sure whether his single-mindedness was a good thing or not, given that he wasn't pursuing research for his job. But he wasn't ready to give up. International Rescue was going to succeed; he was going to make sure of that. He understood electronics, he had the expertise to read into and become proficient in a second field.

And he had the ability to solve the problem that was plaguing his father. Somehow, with all of the knowledge that he had amassed during school, he would fix it.

"Hear that, Mom?" He whispered, a tiny smile coming to his lips as he spoke. "Things are going to work out. I promise."

* * *

Two days before the end of April, John Tracy let his head fall against the back of his couch and let the book in his hands drop to the cushions. The technical manual landed spread eagle on the upholstery, opened to the chapter entitled _The Mathematical Properties of Background Noise_. 

He was exhausted, and in more ways than one. Glancing around at his sparsely decorated apartment, John wondered, for the first time since he had arrived at the Cape, what he was doing there. He had never cared much for physical wealth, but the lack of anything at all in his apartment suggested a level of poverty that was hardly healthy.

Of course, he thought, he _had_ been spending an exorbitant amount of money on books in the last month. But that he was buying the books at all really made him wonder.

Communications: it had nothing to do with his job at all. He was a research engineer! He plotted structural stress during the launch sequence. It was immensely important work. The lives of countless people rode on his shoulders all the way up to space and back.

Communications: memories flooded back to John, of the hours that he had spent as a child hunched over a CB radio, trying to wile away long periods of boredom. The fascination, the curiosity, and the dawning feeling of triumph when he finally heard another person's voice were greater than anything he had felt while working at NASA. He had even wanted to go into radio astronomy for a time. John Tracy, who had once been twelve years old with all of the hope and curiosity in the world, had wanted to talk to the stars.

Child's play.

Something had to be done, John knew, and soon, before he became so distracted from his work that it became visible in the quality of his efforts. International Rescue was becoming more than a hobby for him, more than an act of compassion to aid his father.

It was fast becoming an obsession, and John understood why. There was a feeling of fulfilment that came with helping his father; a feeling that, when he weighed the importance of space science versus the worth of a human life, was stronger than anything that he had ever felt. And it completely counteracted the sinking feeling that had been rising in his stomach since he had applied for the NASA job.

The job.

He felt that he owed his co-workers more than what he was giving them. He felt that he had an obligation to his job, to his society, and he was not doing it justice. He felt that he had to stay where he was. He had to keep doing what he was doing. He felt he had to shove the thoughts to the back of his mind, where they wouldn't bother him any longer.

He couldn't.

"Do what you are meant to do," he whispered airily, though the words were sucked up by the noise of his second-hand air conditioner. "Do what you are meant to do."

For the briefest of moments, the sound of his mother's voice trickled through his mind. He didn't know if her words were the product of memory or his own imagination, but it didn't matter.

_"Johnny, you have to do what you want to do. No one's going to make you do anything."_

The sentence echoed about in his head, and he even experimented with the words on the tip of his tongue. Memory or not, his mother was right. Sighing, John let his head roll on the back of the couch, the last of his strength flooding from him in a rush.

From where he lay, eyes pointed towards the opposing wall, he could just make out the top of the painting that Virgil had created for him a few years back. The lush colours of the nebula seemed bright in contrast to the stark white walls of the apartment. It was so vivid, he thought, so incredibly vivid that it was nearly tangible.

And then, as his eyes fell to the planet Earth that rested in the bottom of the painting, John understood what he needed to do.

* * *

Having checked over the letter several times, only to find himself still unsatisfied with its contents, John Tracy finally succumbed and let the envelope that he carried fall into the open mail slot. Logically it was the right thing to do – he had to carry out his actions quickly, without being noticed, and to speak to the woman face-to-face would only eliminate the cover that he currently had. 

But it still hurt. Turning his back to the office, John walked briskly down the darkened corridor with the intent of already being gone by the time that Alicia Berkman arrived at her office in the morning. He couldn't dally, or he risked giving into the part of him that refused to leave without explaining everything to the woman.

It would be the first of many sacrifices, John thought, that he would need to make if he were to carry out his plan. But it was necessary. Whether he liked it or not, some things were more important than his own feelings.

He just hoped that somehow Alicia would find it in herself to understand.

* * *

_Dear Ms. Berkman, _

I cannot begin to thank you for the kindness that you and your associates have shown me since I arrived. Even if I've never shown it, I do understand why they did what they did, and I appreciate their attempts to bring me out of my office for more than lunch.

I know that I really should be sending this letter to your superiors, but I feel a personal obligation to inform you first. You took an amazing risk by suggesting that I be put in my position, and subsequently placing me in that position, and I hope that I have not let you down.

But I have let you down, now, if not then. There are too many things happening for me to explain them in this short letter, and too many things that I cannot explain at all, but I would like you to know one thing.

I am not leaving because of anything that any of you have done. I could not wish for greater and more caring co-workers, and I can only hope that other people in other professions are blessed to work with men and women of your calibre. Perhaps the next individual appointed to my position will be more willing to join in the fun and accept the welcoming hand that all of you held out to me.

I've enclosed with this letter the finished schematics that my superiors requested to be done for the June pre-launch. I know it's a bit early, but I'm sure that it will take a load off of all of your shoulders. I'm sure that you can find someone else that can more than fill the empty office space that I am leaving behind.

I've also included with this letter my official letter of resignation. I hope that is enough. I've tried to tie up any loose ends as best as I could, and I'll apologise now if I didn't fully complete that task. It is not my intent to cause any of you trouble, and I sincerely hope that management does not pursue this matter any further than it needs to be.

It's very likely that I will never see any of you again. Don't try and find me. You won't be able to. I can't explain why that is, but please don't be worried. What I'm doing is my own volition, and the choice to leave NASA is the hardest one that I've ever made in my life. I will understand if you are angry with me, and if you never can accept why I am doing this. But know this:

I've always followed my heart. That's what has kept me sane through all of these years. My heart is telling me that Cape Canaveral is not my home. I'm sure that I knew this when I first applied to the space program, but I was so determined to get the job that I couldn't see that. Another position has come open now and I cannot ignore it, or I will be making as big a mistake as I did before.

If you ever want to find me, just wait for a clear night and look up. The stars are there, and I will surely be up there with them in heart. I'm sorry. I wish that I could say more. You've been a dear friend to me these past few months. You deserve better than this.

John Tracy

Pulling the hand-written letter tightly to her chest, Alicia Berkman was unable to solidify a single thought or feeling in her mind. She didn't know what to make of the letter, though she understood one thing very clearly.

John Tracy was not coming to work the next day. It was as simple as that. The news shocked her, and she realised how much John had apparently kept hidden from everyone. She hadn't been expecting it. No one had been. Of anything they had assumed that he was comfortable with his job, for it had been the one thing that he had completely dedicated himself to.

_You've been a dear friend to me these past few months._

She had never really thought of John in that sense. Surely, she had been there for him as a guide and had showed him around the building and had introduced him to the other workers. But it had never really occurred to her how much her actions had meant to the quiet and withdrawn young man that was brilliant beyond his years. She had never gone out of her way to make him feel at home. In fact, she had made an effort to give the young man his space.

It was obvious to her, as she thought about it, that only a very small group of them – perhaps only her - had actually treated John as a person. Though he had more than earned his position, many people still thought of him as the son of Jeff Tracy. He was not a young man, but an enigma figure, a shadow of his father. Even Lawrence, who was such a kind soul, had not been able to help making comparisons between John and Jeff, whom he had worked with for so many years.

Thoughts of the night in the cafeteria came to mind, when Lawrence had accidentally rubbed John the wrong way and caused him to withdraw from them even further. After that episode, John had barely spoken to them outside of work. It was as though he had not existed outside of his office.

What to think about the boy? Alicia thought sadly. People weren't puzzles to figure out or a set of schematics that could be plotted. She understood, though, that John was not typical of anyone his age. He had never taken up an offer to go to the bar with his co-workers. In fact, he had made all attempts to isolate himself and become self-sufficient from the group. Where then, in the scheme of things, did he fit in at NASA? Perhaps he was truly too independent, too much of a loner, to survive in such a social environment. She should have seen it from the beginning, should have noticed the warning signs and should have taken action.

_You've a dear friend to me these past few months._ Where did that fit in? Maybe her silent assurances had been enough. And if they had been, then what was she supposed to do now? What was she supposed to offer the young man who had never opened up his heart to anyone around him? Even in his letter he had been kind and forgiving to those men and women who had obviously not been able to understand him. What was she supposed to do to respond to that?

There were too many thoughts and emotions to settle on one thing.

She wanted to know more. She wanted to hunt him down, wanted to drag him into her office and make him explain his actions. She felt betrayed by him; how could he leave such an important and prestigious organization hanging? Even if he had had a better offer, he still had a duty to NASA. He had too many talents to waste them doing –

But she didn't know what he was doing. That, more than anything, Alicia decided, bothered her the most. He could be doing something incredibly stupid, or something incredibly important, and she would never know. He could be rotting in a gutter or solving the crisis of world hunger. She just didn't know.

Reaching out a hand for the phone, she thought at first of trying to get a hold of Jeff Tracy, so that she could ask him first-hand where his son was. Worry spread in her gut; worry that her co-workers had pushed John too far and that he had done something unthinkable out of pain or confusion . . . Maybe she should have stepped in and stopped it, even if it had meant infringing upon the young man's personal life. If he had . . . if somehow he had . . . she would never be able to forgive herself . . .

Her fingers stopped partway to the receiver. Though she wasn't quite sure why, she knew that Jeff wouldn't be able to offer any answers. What John was doing was his choice, and only he could explain it. He had meant what he had said in the letter, she was sure of it. No one else could offer answers, neither Jeff nor the rest of his family that were spread out at unknown locations across the country. All of the hours that she had observed John alone in his office, all of the times that he had politely declined co-workers' invitations, and all of the countless opportunities that he had wasted to get to know his peers better, confirmed it.

He worked alone.

John Tracy was a loner. But the last paragraph of his letter contradicted that plainly. He had revealed in his final statement that the simplest acts of kindness meant more to him than anything in the world. Something so little, such a small touch of humanity, was everything to him.

As her thoughts final came together, it was that final conclusion – which she had reached twice during her reflection on the letter - that stopped Alicia from phoning the police and calling in a request for a missing person search. John had shown time and time again that he would make the greatest sacrifices - such as staying up nights in a row to finish a project - for something that he believed in. He had also shown that, above anything else, he would tackle a project alone if it meant enough to him. In fact, he worked better alone, away from the barrage of human interaction. He didn't fight society's preconceptions of him; he stepped over them completely.

_I've always followed my heart._

And he was doing that again. He was leaving a position that meant a great deal to him to pursue something that apparently meant just that much more. What seemed so strange to Alicia was obviously not so strange to John. It was not the people that kept him at work – it was the work itself. In the end, she supposed, it didn't really matter to him how he was treated, or what anyone else felt about his leaving. He didn't care about that sort of thing.

He wasn't lying dead somewhere, the victim of a harsh suicide brought about by personal stress, and he hadn't left because of her and her co-workers. He had left because something – something that she could not imagine in her mind – meant more to him than what he already had at NASA. Something weighed more in his mind than the infinite devotion that he had shown to his employers. Some private venture of the heart, perhaps, had called him, and he had answered.

She wasn't angry with him. How could she be? He hadn't done anything wrong, in terms of his own philosophy. And yet, he hadn't done anything right, when she looked at the situation through her own eyes.

He had simply vanished without a trace, as he always did, wasting no effort to try and explain his alien reasoning to others. He didn't expect them to understand, perhaps. And perhaps, perhaps, she thought, they never would be able to.

She wasn't mad at him. She wasn't happy.

She was numb.

Alicia let the letter fall from her hands. It floated, carried by air currents, until it fell onto the floor at her feet.

It was time to tell the others.

* * *

The sound of a plane engine startled Jeff Tracy out of his reverie, bringing him back to his study and the mound of paperwork that lay on his desk. It was unmistakable, the low hum of the turbo-jet, and he wondered who it was that was approaching the island without radioing in. 

Getting up from the desk, Jeff walked slowly to the window. He gazed outwards into the harsh glare of the sun and was able to pick out the outline of a blue coloured prop gliding down towards the main runway.

"John . . ."

Tracy One, the main jet flown by Jeff, was in the hanger. Tracy Two, the jet that he had purchased for John so that his son could fly home, was doing just that. Flying home.

Three seconds passed before Jeff decided that he should probably be waiting on the landing strip instead of watching the entire procedure from his office window. It took him less time than that to fly down the stairs, launch past a startled Brains, and smack directly into Scott, who was trying to carry a set of beers on a platter up to his father's office.

"Hey!" Trying to maintain his own balance, Scott let the tray and the beers fall to the ground. The glasses shattered on the wood, spraying their contents about the oak floor.

The two men stared at each other for a long moment, until Scott shrugged and reached down to pick up the tray. "Something happen?"

"John's home."

The words had an immediate effect on Scott. His face became concerned, and he let the platter fall back to the floor with a clang. "Why?"

"I don't know," Jeff replied, resuming his walk to the outside door and the landing strip. "I'm going to find out."

* * *

John felt numb. The entire flight from Florida to the island had taken three days even with stops, and he was tired beyond belief. He hadn't even taken the time out to rent hotels, but had instead simply curled up in the plane and slept in the passenger compartment. 

As he grabbed his bag from the stow and slowly made his way out of the plane and down the exit ladder, he wondered if he were even awake. It felt so much like a dream, so full of fog, that he was beginning to doubt his sanity. The sunlight outside of the plane was blinding, and rays of light assaulted his already overloaded senses.

The sight of Jeff and Scott at the foot of the ladder did wonders for his exhaustion. He simply collapsed onto his father's form, closed his eyes, and let the real dreams take over.

"John!"

"Tired." The word slipped out of his mouth, but he was already drifting into darkness.

"John."

"I-i-i-i fear that I've made a horrible mistake."

"Hmm?" Jeff looked up from his spot beside the couch, where he and Scott had laid John down. The young man was obviously exhausted, and he had not stirred since he had arrived home two hours earlier.

"A mistake," Brains clarified, and with a sigh he pushed his glasses up on his nose. "I c-c-c-couldn't deliver your product for you."

Completely confused, Jeff shook his head. "What are you talking about?"

Silently, Brains reached into a shoulder bag that he was carrying with him and withdrew a thin coiled notebook. He opened it to the first page and turned it so that Jeff could see the long and looping handwriting scrawled onto the paper.

It was the diagram of Thunderbird Five that caught Jeff's attention. The picture, haphazardly drawn as if an afterthought, was interspersed with mathematical formulas and hastily jotted notes. The writing was in John's hand.

"What was he doing?" Jeff asked out-loud, taking the book from his engineer so that he could study it more closely.

"C-c-c-confirming my initial fears." Brains leaned over and flipped to the very back of the book. "You should read this."

The words, written largely so that they would be easily visible, jumped off of the page.

_Hey Dad, _

If you're reading this, I'll assume that I either fell asleep at the helm and you're recovering my body, or I fell asleep at home and haven't had time to speak to you. I hope it's the latter.

You need to pass this book on to Brains. It has some stuff in it that he might find useful, and he'll need to get started on it right away. I think I've found a way to fix your communications problem, but it's going to require some work on my part.

Hope I can live up to the standards that you and Scott have set.

Love,

John

"He fixed the problem?"

"H-h-h-he's counteracted my stupidity."

"Explain."

Brains looked around, found a chair nearby, and dragged it over beside the couch. Sitting down, he leaned carefully against the back and faced Jeff with a concerned look.

"T-t-t-there was something intrinsically wrong with my design for Thunderbird Five. The station is d-d-d-designed to carry out two main functions. First," he held up a finger, "it is m-m-m-meant to sift through r-r-r-radio frequencies and subsequently find and l-l-l-locate distress calls. Second, it is m-m-m-meant to serve as a communications hub f-f-f-for the organization, as well as a w-w-w-weather monitor. All of this work is c-c-c-carried out by the main computers."

"That sounds about right."

"It's not r-r-r-r-right. The problem that I r-r-r-ran into when designing the s-s-s-satellite was one of size versus e-e-e-efficiency. I-I-I-in order to stay invisible, the station had to be b-b-b-below a c-c-c-certain size. The stealth coating p-p-p-p-protects it to a certain extent, and the scramblers do a-a-a-an adequate enough job of hiding its transmission position. The problem lies in the –r-r-r-radio arrays. They can only be so large or t-t-t-t-they reflect visible light that could be detected. T-t-t-this in turn physically limits the transmission power."

A sigh escaped Jeff's mouth; he knew exactly what Brains was talking about. "There's not enough bandwidth for the systems to handle communications, data transfer, and search algorithm input all at the same time."

"E-e-e-exactly. M-m-m-may I?" When Jeff nodded, Brains reached over and took the notebook back. He flipped through it, his eyes darting from page to page, until he found what he was looking for. "Now," he held the book once again so that Jeff could see it, "m-m-m-most of the bandwidth is used up in remote access. I'm controlling the s-s-s-s-station from the ground, and the constant transmission of command prompts drains the bandwidth. In addition to that, the station handles communications between the Thunderbirds and the island, a-a-a-as well constant input from the general Earth radio stream itself. F-f-f-f-finally, any additional disaster information is relied in a tight-band data-stream directly to the Thunderbirds, where the pilots are forced to sift through the information themselves. The, uh, arrays are being split in four d-d-d-d-different directions."

"And what did he find?"

"He has proposed a-a-a-a partial technical solution," Brains explained, pointing at a set of trigonometric equations and diagrams that meant very little to Jeff. "We can increase the efficiency of the arrays by u-u-u-u-using a different type of grid. I was actually working on this myself, and it's nearly r-r-r-r-ready for implementation." He stopped there and gave Jeff a grave look. "This w-w-w-w-won't quite solve the problem."

"I thought you said that he proposed a solution."

"He d-d-d-d-did." Brains' mouth tightened ever so slightly, and he looked over at the sleeping form on the couch. "The other way to fix the problem is to eliminate the unnecessary command prompt and file transfer."

"How?"

"B-b-b-b-by condensing the weather information, satellite reads, and other technical data to one radio channel, and by eliminating the n-n-n-need for remote access."

Jeff's brow furrowed in confusion. "James, if you're trying to make a point, then spit it out. You're losing me."

"You need someone to relay the information m-m-m-m-manually," Brains explained quietly. "You need a, uh, human brain to sift through the data, to determine what actually needs to be sent to the g-g-g-g-ground. We need someone up on the s-s-s-station, Mr. Tracy, to deal with possible errors in the system and computer control directly."

The words echoed in Jeff's mind several times before the implications of them actually became apparent. When they did, his eyes widened enormously. He knew what John wanted to do. "No."

His voice apologetic, Brains sighed and replied, "There is no other way."

"No." Shaking his head, Jeff looked over at John, who had begun to snore, and closed his eyes in distress. "No. I'm not sending him up there." The idea seemed ridiculous. "James, think about it! He couldn't even manage the flight up. And the station is not suitable for habitation-"

"It c-c-c-c-could be made to be. Easily. We'd have to install m-m-m-manual interfaces, of course, but the computers could be re-designed for human use. M-m-m-mister Tracy, it would free up the downward bandwidth on all but one channel. You could have someone constantly relaying you information via v-v-v-voice communication – and extra data only if necessary - and the station could c-c-c-constantly be receiving information during the rescue using that extra, uh, transmission power. That's been i-i-i-impossible up until this point. John could even communicate directly with t-t-t-those in trouble if he needed to."

"No." Banging his fist on his knee, Jeff felt the anger welling up within him. "No. Why do you seem to feel that I have to send my son to some god-forsaken station in the middle of nowhere? You're my head engineer. Think of another way. It's not happening."

"I can't." Brains' face echoed true pity. "Mister Tracy, I would feel the same if it were F-f-f-f-fermat in this position instead of John. But w-w-w-we're not asking John to do this. He wants to do it. And we n-n-n-need him to do it."

"James-"

"Let him go."

Both Brains and Jeff turned their heads to see Scott standing calmly at the doorway of the room. His face was unreadable, and Jeff couldn't begin to fathom the emotions that had to be passing through his oldest child.

"Scott-"

"Let him go, Dad." Scott's voice was strained. "You let me quit the Airforce, and we thought that I'd be there forever. You're letting Virgil join the team when he finishes school. Let John do this. He gave his reasoning in the letter. There is no other way in hell that we can do this without him."

"It's suicide," Jeff managed to spit out, "that's what it is. Professional suicide."

"No, it's not. Professional suicide is when you do something stupid for nothing. He's throwing his entire career away to _help us out_. Dad," he sighed, "I heard you, two years ago, when you were talking to John about joining NASA in the first place. He wanted to do something to help the world. What could be greater than this? Dad, he loves us, this family, and that's stronger than any other emotion in the world. If that's why he left, then NASA is still a dead-end for him. It'd be like me going back to the Airforce. He'd just have to lie to himself over and over again, trying to convince himself that he's somewhere he wants to be when in fact he'd rather be at home helping us. It just wouldn't work. His career there is finished."

The words slammed into Jeff's brain like a rocket, shaking loose any remaining foundation that was left there. He knew that Scott was right, knew that Brains was right, and knew what was going to happen if he said yes. But the thought of literally sending one of his sons to the edge of existence dug at his heart in a way that nothing had in a long time.

"Maybe someone else can . . ." Jeff whispered, only to find his voice fading away to nothingness. There was no way that he could sacrifice two people to the cold vacuum. John would have to go on his own. "Scott, if he were asking anything else of me I would let him join in a moment. But this – "

From the couch, a tired and raspy voice whispered, "Let me try."

"John!" All three of the men jumped in surprise then quickly made their way to kneel by the couch.

"Hey, John," Scott laughed softly, punching his brother playfully in the arm. "You know that it's dangerous to fly when you're asleep, right?"

John snorted, his face still pale, and tried to return the punch. John's hand fell short, but Scott chuckled all the same at the attempt. "Scott, I don't even think I was asleep. That's what scares me." His expression brightened somewhat, even amidst his continuous yawning. "I didn't get sick, though. That's progress."

"That is progress," Scott replied, turning to look at his father with a profound expression. "If he can do that, he can make a sub-orbital jaunt."

"I-i-i-i'll need help installing the new circuits anyway," Brains added, to which Jeff finally groaned and threw his hands up in the air.

"Fine!"

The tone of his voice, both harsh and resigned at the same time, caused John, Scott, and Brains to all fall silent. They traded cautious looks, trying to figure out what Jeff was really thinking. In the end, it was not them who broke the silence.

It was Jeff who spoke. "I've tried all of these years to keep this family together, and truth be told I feel that I've screwed up more than I've succeeded. I don't want to lose another one of you."

Pushing himself up, John steadied himself for a moment with his hand, then reached that same hand out to grasp his father's shoulder. "You won't be losing me. We'll be able to talk. And I can't stay up there forever. We'll have to do supply runs back and forth, and maybe I can come down for Christmas and stuff."

Jeff didn't need John's words to convince him of what he needed to do. He knew what he had to do. "You won't be missing Christmas, John." He pursed his lips, then reached his own hand and placed it on top of his son's. "I don't want you to go. But I can't stop you, and I know how much you'll be able to help us."

Pale blue eyes widened in surprise. "You mean that you'll let me?"

"I don't let you do anything, John," Jeff explained, his own voice suddenly tired-sounding. "You're too old for me to order around. This is your choice."

Closing his eyes in absolute bliss, John pulled his fists to his chest and clenched them tightly. "Yes!" His next movement, an attempt to jump and pump his hands in the air, only half-happened as his physically drained body made little effort to actually move. The effort sent him sprawling onto the floor, his head smacking into the hardwood with a bang.

A laugh escaped Scott's mouth, even though he was horrified to see John fall so hard. Brains also laughed at the comedy of the situation, and soon Jeff joined in. John, meanwhile, lay dazed on the floor, rubbing his aching head with his hand.

"Ow."

Jeff took his son gently by the arm and helped him to sit back up on the couch. "Just wait until you get home from space. You'll be doing that for a week."

"That felt like the centrifuge," the blond moaned quietly, laughing at himself for his stupidity. "I couldn't even move."

"A-a-a-about that," Brains put in happily, "I've been working on a device that could p-p-p-possibly counteract the free-fall effect in order to provide some f-f-f-f-form of artificial gravity-"

Deciding that it was time to actually let John sleep, Scott grabbed Brains lightly by the shirt, and pulled him away from the couch. "Tell us about it later."

"Yes, someone needs to get some rest."

John didn't argue as Jeff pushed him down onto the pillow and pulled a fleece blanket up and over his chest to his neck. He closed his eyes and immediately fell into what seemed to be a state of perfect relaxation.

"I won't wake you up," Jeff said softly, watching the slow rise and fall of his son's chest. But John didn't hear him. The young man had already drifted off into sleep, his face calm with a look of almost childish innocence.

"Sleep well, John."

* * *

**A/N:** This chapter is dedicated to all of those people out there like me who are fans of John Tracy and can't seem to write too many words without coming back to him. :) I'd eventually like to run a little short story somewhere to tie up the loose ends with Alicia Berkman, but that's for another time. Until then, you'll just have to decide in your own mind what happened at NASA after John left. As is, this is unofficially Part I of IIIof John's story. 

Thank-you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! Sorry about taking so long with this chapter – I didn't realise how close my lab finals were until they started kicking me in the rear. Also, a big thank-you goes to Ariel D (again ;) ) for beta reading this chapter. Thank-you!

(guiltly plug for the day) Check out "In the Lobby" if you're looking for something else to read until I post Winds again. It's a prologue to Winds that I posted in response to a fanfic contest. (end guilty plug) :)

**barb from utah** – It's great to see another reader! I'm really glad that you're enjoying it. Given that you're a parent yourself (I remember you saying it on another review) I'm really flattered by your compliment about Jeff. I find him the hardest person to write, because he's so much older than I am:)

**Math Girl** – Hey, don't worry about it. And starting next chapter, John will begin to undergo a slow and subtle change that will become noticeable by the end of the story. Virgil does have little parts all the way through and Gordon shows up more later, but for the next two chapters it will mostly be John. :)

**Ariel D** – It means so much to hear you say that. Thank-you. :) I actually tried really hard to capture the feel of the television pilot episode "Trapped in the Sky". I don't know if I completely succeeded, but it was my intent to make this chapter every bit as exciting as that episode was.

**Assena** – Thank-you, and you're welcome:) Oddly enough, I think Ariel also used the word "sweetheart" when describing John during her beta read. lol Gordon will be showing up throughout the story, though. Heck, someone has to annoy Alan. ;)

**Marblez** – For some reason I'm thinking of that scene from Spirited Away where the frog spirit is jumping around chanting and cheering with the oriental fans . . . or maybe I'm just tired and need more sleep. :)

**ms. imagine** – I know what you mean . . . I just finished writing most of the end of the story, and I had a really hard time writing Gordon's accident. As much as he's a little rascal sometimes, I honestly suffered from writer's block whenever it came to writing the emotional scenes. I'm glad to hear that you like it, though. :) It's great to have another reader.

**zeilfanaat** – lol Don't worry about reviewing Midnight Musings. I'm glad that you enjoyed it! Hopefully you liked this chapter too. I mean, it has John in it. ;) I'm so close to finishing this story, then maybe I'll have more time to edit and post it. lol It's been quite a ride so far, and I've only posted 1/3 of it! (cringes) Oh man, now she's going to flaunt, zeil . . . lol!

**andrewjameswilliams** – Ah yes, the proper uniforms. All in due time. :) Actually, the next set of chapters (I'm throwing out seven as a number, but don't trust me on it) take place all in a three to six month period after this one. They all follow one after another pretty quickly. But they'd better, because I have a lot of story left and only a few years to do it in! lol

**the peace pixie** – lol Scott just fits right into the part of the commander – my sister calls him Junior Jeff. :)

* * *

Catch next chapter for Part II of III of this set of chapters, entitled, "Thunderbird Five" . . . it's time for John to spread his wings and soar. Until then, FAB, all. 


	20. Thunderbird Five

_Dislcaimer: Thunderbirds is the property of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, as well as Carlton and Universal. No profit is intended to be made from this story; it is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended, and none should be inferred.

* * *

_

**Thunderbird Five  
March 2018**

"All ready?" Jeff Tracy asked for the tenth time, making sure in his own mind that his son was set for the launch.

Strapped tightly into the third seat, with Brains set in the co-pilot's chair, John nodded and let his head fall backwards against the cushioning. "Yep."

All three men wore rumpled grey suits that Brains had quickly whipped together down in the lab. They were less bulky than the suits used by NASA, but the engineer had assured both Jeff and John that they were quite safe to use. In addition, all three carried beside them insulating flight helmets that could be used in the event that air pressure was lost in the ship.

"Begin final countdown," Jeff commanded, flipping a series of switches on the main panel that sent Thunderbird Three into its final launch sequence. "Call systems."

"Computer interface is go."

"L-l-life support is go."

"Engines are green."

"Structural looks good."

Of course, Jeff could see all of that by simply looking at the complex diagnostic interface that lay before him. But he liked procedures, and he couldn't bring himself to handle a space launch without some form of pre-flight check. It was habit that had been banged into him too many times to easily throw it aside.

"We are good to go."

A large digital counter flashed onto the LCD portion of the main view port. The numbers began to drop slowly from ten, as a computerised voice read off the countdown.

"Ten, nine, eight, seven."

Thunderbird Three jumped slightly as the rockets readied for launch.

"Six, five, four, three."

"I won't throw up."

Jeff flipped around, concerned, but John waved him off.

"Two, one."

It was too late to worry. With almost the force of an atomic explosion, the rocket fired its jets and began to pull away from the launch bay. The motion sent all three men backward in their seats.

Through the smoke and fire, Jeff could see the nose cone pass through the exit of the bay, past the split panels of the island library, past the upper part of the island, and up into the atmosphere. Fighting the g-forces, he turned his head to glance at Brains, who seemed to be managing fine, and John, who looked ready to heave up his lunch at any moment.

"Vomiting during take-off is not a good idea," Jeff offered, yelling over the din.

"Making me talk isn't either," John choked back, trying to hold down his food.

Crossing his fingers mentally, Jeff turned back towards the flight systems and began to slowly bring the rocket's main jets off-line. Through the view-port, the sky was beginning to fade from blue to black, and slowly, very slowly, pinpricks of stars began to be visible.

Jeff had half a mind to mention that to John, but he decided that his son was not in any condition to be stargazing out the window. John's paling complexion was enough deterrent on its own. The blond-haired astronomer looked ready to pass out.

"Main launch complete," the computer chimed, and the ship shuddered as the chemical boosters cut out. Another much lower and deeper rumble started, as Jeff slowly brought the particle accelerator on-line. Carefully, so as not to jump the ship, he activated the spatial drive. The forward acceleration smoothed out, and Thunderbird Three drifted gracefully out of the atmosphere into the void.

As gravity abated slightly, and Three began to enter into orbit, the feeling of weightlessness began to take over. Thankful for the seat strap, Jeff ignored the sudden and continual feeling of dropping, and brought the ship onto an intercept course with the satellite.

"C-c-c-course looks good," Brains stuttered, adding minor corrections to the positioning. "It won't take long, the station is nearly synchronised directly over the island."

At Brains suggestion, Thunderbird Five had been positioned in a geo-synchronised orbit high above Tracy Island, where it would always be in a place to communicate with the main base. Sure enough, it was already visible through the view-port, as a small glittering object amongst the stars.

Grinning at the joy of once again being in space, Jeff couldn't help but feel elated. He was a businessman, for sure, but his heart remained that of an astronaut. The experience of a launch was like nothing else in the world.

A nauseated sounding voice drifted from behind the command console. "I don't want to do that _ever_ again."

"Did you vomit?"

"No," John replied slowly, his voice ragged. "But it all feels the same to me. The launch. The weightlessness. It all makes me want to puke. This has nothing to do with me being scared."

"That's all right," Jeff replied, keeping his attention on the approach vector screen. "It's still just like conquering a phobia. Weightlessness takes some getting used to. Look at it this way, John. You're one step up from where you were when you rode the centrifuge."

His face worried, Brains offered, "I-i-i-i'll have the gravity generator integrated for the next flight."

"It's too late for that," interrupted Jeff quietly, "we're already up here. But we need to get the system installed on Five as soon as possible." Gazing at John, he continued in a whisper, "He's in no condition to help anyone out or do any form of technical work. He can barely think."

"But I can still hear!" John's voice carried a small touch of irritation to it. "I'll be fine."

Jeff glanced back at John dubiously. "Three seconds ago you were saying how sick you were."

"I'm fine," John declared emphatically.

"You're stubborn," Jeff argued, his own voice carrying a hint of annoyance. "Immensely so."

"So are you."

Unable to argue with such a true statement, Jeff shook his head and focused all of his attention on the computer. "Approach looks good."

The sound of both Brains and John chuckling didn't help.

* * *

Thunderbird Five loomed large in the view-port, its massive radio arrays reflecting the harsh glare of the sun. Its docking port protruded to one side, breaking the otherwise symmetrical pattern of the habitation ring.

An audible click sounded in the cockpit as Three gently connected with the station, the automatic docking system generating an airlock between the two ships. Weightlessness finally set in completely as Three came to a full stop, lifting the three astronauts up in their seats.

"Sick?" Jeff asked humorously, noting the look on the face of his lead engineer.

"A b-b-b-bit," Brains responded honestly, busy trying to undo his crash harness. "I'd m-m-m-much rather stay on the ground."

"Stupid seat belts."

Startled by the tone coming from his normally passive son, Jeff unstrapped himself from his seat and kicked himself forward with the practised art of a man who had been in space far too often. He floated slowly across the cockpit until he was within arms reach of John's seat.

"It releases here," he offered dryly, pushing a button that unhooked the harness with one loud snap.

Looking slightly embarrassed, John shook his head and carefully pushed himself from the seat. "I knew that." The younger Tracy glanced down at the floor, which lay several inches below his feet, with a mixture of awe and distaste. "This is nothing like training."

"No, it's not," Jeff replied quietly, "real space is nothing like weightlessness in the diving pool. No amount of courage can convince your stomach that it's not suffering from food poisoning. Think you can handle it?"

Tossing his father a determined glare, John gave the seat a push and succeeded in slamming himself full force into the nearest control panel. His shoulder collided heavily with the console, and his faced cringed up in pain. It was obvious, Jeff noted with mild amusement, that he was biting back several more lines of profanity.

"Little kicks, John. Pretend you're swimming."

"I know, Dad."

Finally, after several attentive minutes, Jeff was able to direct both John and Brains to the main airlock. The engineer dragged several large crates behind him, containing what he claimed to be the beginnings of an artificial gravity generator.

Silently, Jeff cued the airlock switch and waited as the system began to cycle atmosphere through the empty crawl space in between the two ships. A green light flashed when it finished, and the door slowly lifted up to reveal a drab, greyish interior that was furnished with girders, pylons, and loose bits of fibre optic wiring.

Jeff and Brains jumped through the door immediately, but John hung back, his eyes jumping around at the mess floating about inside. He didn't say anything, but his face showed obvious surprise at the state of disarray that the satellite was in. "This is a mess," he finally muttered, shaking his head.

"It was never meant to be suitable for habitation," Jeff laughed sadly, "only for the occasional service calls. You're lucky that the interior is even radiation and air tight, or we would be flying around in helmets and air packs."

"I-i-i-it was lucky that we brought along the extra oxygen tanks," Brains added, "as the station is normally kept in a vacuum. It k-k-keeps the circuits preserved better. Though," he added as an afterthought, "I, uh, suppose that won't be possible any longer."

"This is a mess," John stated again, letting go of the pack that he carried with him so that it floated in mid air.

For a moment, a glimmer of hope sounded in Jeff's brain. He thought, briefly, that maybe John would be deterred by the enormity of the task at hand and would forget the whole thing.

Putting on a determined face, John shook his head, grabbed the pack again, and propelled himself forward along the walls. "Well, we'd better get started." His voice carried with it the seriousness of a man on a mission. "I don't want to be doing this all night."

He would not be distracted, Jeff thought in dismay. John had made up his mind, and he would not stop until he was finished. He wondered how long it would take his son to bring the station to a state of peak efficiency.

"We have to seal these wires," John's voice echoed from around the corner, a small hint of happiness finally coming back to it. "We should probably pump the air out, don the suits, and do it in a vacuum. That way they'll be permanently preserved as long as this station is up and running."

* * *

"Can you float me a hammer?"

Laughing, Jeff Tracy reached into the utility pack on his belt and pulled out a long metal cudgel. "I'm a bit worried giving this to you. What are you going to hit?"

"The computer," responded John, catching the floating tool in his free hand. Below him, the main computer console lay exposed, its circuits and wires open to the vacuum of the station. Jeff and John were both wearing complete space suits and were communicating via a set of short-wave radios.

Shaking his head and hoping that John knew what he was doing, Jeff couldn't hold back a cringe as his son brought the hammer down directly onto a support girder. The steel dented, then bent completely over as John hit it again and again. Finally, the piece was doubled over enough to fit nicely under the cover that Brains had fashioned for the console.

Fingering the delicate instruments, John gave a quick look to make sure everything was in order. When he was satisfied that nothing was amiss, he grabbed the console cover - which was floating to the right of his head - and fitted it carefully over the opening.

The hard part came next.

Without making a sound, John activated the arch welder that he carried with him and set the current against a piece of metal that he held in his other hand. The metal was an alloy that Brains had developed, one that melted at a low temperature like copper, but resisted the rusting that both copper and iron were prone to.

"Careful," Jeff warned his son, a bead of sweat rolling down his brow. "We don't want to short the main computer."

They had been up on the station for a total of three days, most of which had been spent cleaning up the mess that had never been righted from the day of launch. Brains had spent his time installing the gravity generator and array modifiers, and it looked as though the entire station would be operational again very soon. During that time, the entire International Rescue organization had been offline with the computer, and Jeff was anxious to get it running again.

"I know," John muttered, watching the welder carefully to make sure that the current didn't jump into the integrated circuits. "The last thing that I want to do is have another lunch break in zero-g." Finally, as the metal began to melt, he took the piece and dragged it along the razor fine edge of the console. A few taps in the right places had the cover sitting solidly in its spot.

"Good boy."

John snorted in amusement. "Yes, father dearest." He couldn't hold back a smile from his lips. "I'm so glad that I am privy to your praise and affection."

Jeff raised an eyebrow. "You are a mouthy child."

"Only the best."

The entire conversation was entertaining, given that John was far from the rudest member of his family and rarely spoke badly about anyone at all. His poor mood had subsided as the three men had gone about repairs, and Jeff was beginning to think that John would manage all right after all. The initial shock of the flight had obviously worn off, and Jeff could see in his son's eyes a soft glimmer of excitement. Jeff had felt the same thing years ago, when he had first set foot in a space shuttle. And the way in which he moved about the station, as if he had spent his childhood in zero gravity, suggested a growing tolerance to the environment that would overcome any phobia or physical debility.

_He could retake the NASA test and pass. I know he could now._

John was quiet for a long moment, eyes watching the electricity flicker back and forth from prong to prong on the welder. His face grew distant, as though his mind were someplace else.

Using the wall as a brace, Jeff launched himself gently so that his momentum took him to the console where John worked. He caught himself on the newly installed cover, grabbing the corner of the computer station with his hands. "Penny for your thoughts?"

A quiet chuckle escaped John's lips. "You can pay more than that, Dad. But the thoughts aren't worth much more than a penny."

"Sure they are." The two men floated side by side, staring at the dimly lit command room that was just beginning to look like anything other than a storage bay.

"I'm scared to look."

The comment was not what Jeff was expecting. "What?"

"I'm scared to look," John repeated, his voice soft. "I'm scared that once I see them it'll be enough. I'm scared that I'll want to go back down. I've been avoiding every window in this place, and on Thunderbird Three, since we arrived. I don't want to loose this feeling," he gestured with his hand helplessly. "I can't explain it. It's just _there_, Dad."

Jeff didn't have to ask what 'they' were. "Maybe you _should_ look."

"Why?"

"Because whether you look now or later it won't change anything. Why not settle your mind?" Jeff laughed mildly. "John, I'm not happy about you deciding to stay up here. But I want _you _to be happy, not me."

Glumly, John replied, "I just hope that the feeling wasn't a spur of the moment type feeling. I can't go back to NASA now."

"It wasn't," Jeff assured him, his eyes glowing with the pride of a father. "Because I can look at you and I can see a man that has a destination in mind. You want to get somewhere, and you won't give up until you get there."

"I did with NASA, too."

"You wanted to make it to the training," Jeff corrected quietly, "which you did. You wanted to feel as though you were doing something important. But I don't think you ever meant to get to the job."

John's face became instantly unreadable, as though he had withdrawn into a concrete shell. "You don't know that."

"You've been doing it since your mother died. You've been trying to become something special. I know you, John. You're my son. And somewhere in your heart you decided that NASA wasn't going to cut it. No matter what you wanted to do for your mother, NASA wasn't the answer."

The words that left Jeff Tracy's mouth were the unspoken ones that had been with him since John had failed his initial training. Even then he had seen the pain in his son's eyes, and he had known that John had not only been trying to please his father.

"Maybe." Pain was evident in John's voice. "Maybe that's what's driving me now. Maybe I don't want to-"

"Disappoint her," Jeff finished for his son, his own face creased with the memories of his wife. "John, I understand the feeling." He sighed and folded his arms across his chest. His eyes became distant, as though he was seeing into a past long gone. "We're both men who've become - some would say - too obsessed with something that is no longer here. We can't bring your mother back, and that's a fact."

"I know."

"But." The word hung in the air. "That hasn't stopped either of us from trying."

His eyes blinking rapidly, John looked close to tears. "Dad-"

"We've all done something," Jeff explained, "to remember your mother by. Scott became another parent for you boys when Lucy died. Gordon made us laugh, like she used to. Virgil shared his music and art when she couldn't. Alan gave us his innocence to care for, in place of hers. I created International Rescue so that others would be spared the same experience."

"What about me?" John asked quietly.

Jeff thought for a long moment before he spoke. "You," he finally replied, "reminded us that there were still things to fight for, even if they were lost in a place where we could no longer see them. You didn't give up. You fought for your career. You fought in the memory of your mother. You still do, John. And your mother never gave up either. She died fighting."

"I'm not a warrior."

"Inside you are. We're both stubborn men, John, but you're more like _her_ than you know." His voice wavered as he spoke. "You have your mother's eyes, and you have her heart. John, you're here because you love this family and you love the ideals that International Rescue is based upon. They're the ideals that your mother taught you when you were little. You didn't love NASA. But you loved your mother, and you wanted to make her proud." Jeff closed his eyes, deep in thought. "You love your mother as much as I do. We both are afraid to let her go. That's why we're here today. But that's not why you're here now, John. You're here because you truly want to be here."

No more needed to be said, for Jeff had revealed more of his thoughts to John than he had to any of his sons in many years. He had said far more than most fathers would ever say to their children in a lifetime.

Shaking his head, John bit his lip, snapped off the welder, and turned away to face the bulkhead. "And what would she do in this situation?"

Jeff didn't offer an answer.

John didn't wait for one. He had a feeling that Jeff wouldn't say what they both already knew. Instead, he let the welder fall from his hands, then buried his face in his gloves. He couldn't touch his own skin, but the act was enough to calm him down. A few long breaths gave him enough stamina to continue. "Okay. Brains?" He flipped a switch on his sleeve and opened the secondary frequency.

"Y-y-y-yes, John?"

"How's everything at your end?"

"I-i-i-i've been finished for a while now," the engineer replied. "H-h-h-how about you?"

"We're done," John whispered, "and we're ready."

"All right, then. Y-y-y-you should be able to flip the breaker from the main console."

John looked over at his father and nodded. "He says to go for it."

Positioning himself aside the main power coupling, Jeff took the clamp in his hands and gave it a hard tug. The switch snapped downward, and electricity immediately flooded through the miles of fibre optics and silicon that composed the Thunderbird Five computer mainframe. The command room lit up as the computer booted. Newly installed screens flashed on, and soon the entire area was bathed in a white glow.

Knowing what he had to do, Jeff tweaked the control that managed the blast windows. There was a metallic shudder, which carried through the entire station, and the doors slowly began to open, revealing a spectacular panorama of Earth through the main view port. It was the first time that the windows had ever been opened, and Jeff knew, from the look on his son's face, that it would not be the last.

* * *

Fighting back tears, John moved slowly to the front of the command center, and laid a single hand against the clear barrier. The synthesised material was so transparent it was as though he was looking through nothing but space itself.

_I can touch the sky,_ John thought in wonderment, trying to hold in the flurry of emotions that were threatening to overcome him. _It's indescribable. _The giddy feeling that had been welling in his chest jump upped into his throat, and a tiny gasp escaped his lips. All of the times that he had spent stargazing on the planet were nothing compared to what he saw out of the window. It went beyond words with its beauty.

For the first time in many years he looked on the naked sky without a hint of sadness or pain. There was no room in his chest for sorrow, and no space in his heart for Lucy Tracy and the emotions that her memory brought to him when he looked at the stars. There was only a pure and untamed joy, untapped since a twelve year old boy had looked up into space. That feeling took him in and wrapped his mind about the sight in a way that refused to let him leave the window.

It was something that he had always dreamed of seeing. Now the stars were so close, so tangible, that they were the only things in the universe that mattered. He was lost.

And then, for a brief and lingering moment, his mother's face disappeared from the constellations, from the ethereal place that she had always remained in since she had died, and was replaced with his own reflection in the pale aluminium alloy glass of the space station.

* * *

The comm cackled, though only Jeff heard Brains' concerned query. "M-m-m-mister Tracy, is everything all right?"

Smiling sadly, for he knew that his son was lost to him, possibly forever, Jeff replied, "Everything is just fine."

* * *

But it was only for a moment. In the twinkling of a star, in the imperceptible change in magnitude caused by the depth of the glass, the feeling of personal glory vanished and was replaced by a feeling of guilt.

Hearing his father's voice in the background, John tried to focus on it instead of the quiet and whispering melody that had begun to play in the back of his mind.

_"John."_

_"Dad?"_

"Yes?"

_"John. Aren't they pretty?"_

"Let's turn in for the night. I think I need some sleep."

_"John."_

"Sure. Brains, did you hear that? We're pulling back to the ship."

"R-r-r-right, Mister Tracy."

"Thanks, Dad."

_"John."_

"No problem, John. We can finish up the installations over the next few days."

_"John."_

"Right."

_"Good-night, Johnny."_

* * *

A/N: And so concludes Part II, as well as this semester of classes! Thank-you everyone for being patient during this time - I wasn't expecting to be so busy, but I ended up devoting almost all of my time since my last update to studying. Good news: you can read on knowing that you will reach the end, because I have the story completed. Even better news: if things go as planned, I could be updating as much as five times a week from this point until the end. :) Before I do anything else, I need to thank Ariel D for taking the time out to beta read this chapter - thank you!

Response to reviewers:

**Marblez -** Consider yourself a very enthusiastic fan. ;) It could work just as well.  
**ladc -** Glad to hear that you liked it, I thought the same thing when I was writing it. He's selfless, but I also couldn't see him working too long in a position that he didn't like. He'd find something better.  
**Ariel D - **I feel bad that I was never able to go into detail about Alicia's character. Oh well, there are always other stories …  
**clairie -** I wonder if that's why he was stuck with the lavender sash as well … Great to have you reading! It's great to have more readers. As for Gordon, I won't say anything right now. ;) Just keep reading.  
**zeilfanaat -** James' look: Definitely concern. As much as Brains is often the punch line of jokes in the series and the movie, I've always thought that he's still a very with it and life-savvy man. He knows the risk that John's about to take, and I think he sees how John is very different from everyone else and he's concerned about his physical _and_ mental health. You're not reading into it too much - it _was _semi-intentional. ;)  
**Antilles -** To clarify, I don't repost the reviews: I respond to my reviewers. I do this because I appreciate the fact that people review my work, and I like to return the favour. :) That said, glad to have you here! Believe it or not, the irony was not intentional …  
**barb from utah -** You have my utmost respect. :D And it really means a lot for me to hear you say that I've portrayed Jeff properly. I'll try and keep that up in the later chapters.  
**andrewjameswilliams -** I couldn't write it without putting in some techo-garble. ;) And I really did want to show why John would need to go up on the space station, since it is dangerous up there.  
**Assena -** Personally, I think Alan will get there eventually. He's a good kid, he just lets his desire to be like his brothers get in the way of things. I don't know if he'd like being alone, though. And yep, Gordon is the master. ;)

* * *

Catch Part III of this set, entitled "Spirit's of the Night", where John makes the most difficult decision of his life. Until then, FAB! 


	21. Spirits of the Night

_Dislcaimer: Thunderbirds is the property of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, as well as Carlton and Universal. No profit is intended to be made from this story; it is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended, and none should be inferred.

* * *

_

**Spirits of the Night  
****March 2018**

It was time to go to bed. Or, John Tracy thought wryly, at least it was down on the planet. Up on Thunderbird Five, drifting about in the cosmic void, there was no night or day, but instead a constant blackness that was dotted with interspersed pricks of light. The sun came around once every twenty-four hours - much like it did on Earth - but the harsh glares did little other than burn his eyes and cause the station to become mildly warmer than it was during the 'night'.

His father had left with Brains an hour earlier, once the three of them had finally managed to eliminate most of the operating flaws in the new computer terminal. The older man had promised to be back within a week with more supplies, though he had been a bit hesitant to leave John alone on the station. It had only been John's calm assurances that had convinced Jeff to finally leave.

John had watched Thunderbird Three drift gracefully away from the station, its particle engines firing it on a course back towards the island.

Back towards . . .

"Home." John sighed and looked around at the barren and sparsely furnished command center. The computer terminal and the data monitors gave the station a bit more of a civilised look, but that didn't hide the fact that it was still just an empty husk floating in the middle of nowhere. There were no sleeping quarters, no kitchen or fridge, and only a small bathroom facility that had been installed for emergency purposes only. Supplies consisted of food rations, a sleeping bag and mattress, a faulty gravity generator, and a water recycler that whirred quietly off in the corner of the room.

Pulling his legs to his chest so that the chair he was sitting on swivelled a bit, John closed his eyes and simply listened. The station sounded very different from any other place he had ever stayed at. Even Thunderbird Three, where he and Jeff and Brains had spent four nights in zero gravity during the modifications of Five, sounded nothing like it.

The dull hum of the particle accelerator or the constant barrage of noise from the chemical boosters dominated Three. Five, on the other hand, buzzed in a subdued manner, as though the entire place were electrified. Fibre optic cable made no noise, as John had noticed immediately upon arriving at the station, but the mechanical parts, such as the air circulation unit, made more than enough to subsidise for that.

The noise was comforting and disconcerting all at once. He had spent enough time as a child playing around with radios to be used to the sound of transmitters and receivers, and every person his age was familiar with the drone of computer hardware. Yet, to be surrounded by it all on such a massive scale was intimidating to say the least.

And outside . . . outside was silent, a silence more profound than anything he had ever experienced in his life. It was not the same as when he had locked himself in his room as he had done when he had been in grade school. There was no other living human being around for thousands of miles, for even the nearest NASA station, Alpha, was circumnavigating the Earth on a completely different ellipse from where Five was.

He was completely and utterly alone, more so than he had ever been in his life.

John took a long moment to try and comprehend the emotions that he was feeling. A part of him was scared, for sure, to be so isolated from anyone else. If something went wrong on the station, help wouldn't arrive fast enough to save him. But a part of him was also intrigued with the possibilities that the isolation offered.

It isn't right, John thought, gazing out at the Earth as the planet slowly faded into night. The lights of North America were visible on his right, while those of Asia and Australia were on his left. In the middle lay a large and bottomless pit, where - somewhere - his father was settling down for the night.

_I shouldn't enjoy this._

Yet he did. There was no one around to interrupt his thoughts, no one to bother him with petty and idiotic issues, no one to disturb the quiet that he found so completely soothing. It was just him, the station, and stars. He was removed from human contact and completely lost within the tiny bubble of existence that he had been given.

John vowed then and there to never go more than twenty-four hours without contacting the island. He knew who he was, and what his mind was capable of, and what he feared more than anything was losing the only other family that he still had. As much as he wanted to be left alone, he loved his family too much to go without talking to them for too long.

But he knew what he would do if given the chance. It would be all too easy – one snip of a cable, and he would never have to deal with another living person ever again. The silence was alluring, addicting even.

He also knew what the silence would bring, and what would inevitably happen if he withdrew inside of himself like he sometimes did. It happened so often that he didn't even keep track anymore, didn't want to keep track.

He could sometimes hear her voice on nights that he was watching the stars from outside the house. It was a light, bubbly sound, like a laugh, that drifted on the wind and rustled the leaves in the trees. It had been his mother that had taught him the constellations when he had been very young, and in that way she remained in his thoughts, never quite there, never quite removed.

The moment had to be right, however, and he had to will it to happen. That was addicting in itself. The temptation was always there when he was on his own. He had the imagination to create his own company when he was lonely. He didn't need to have others around. Even as the thought crossed his mind John was already fighting the temptation of starting up an internal dialogue.

Shaking his head, John rubbed his eyes and tried to bring himself to some form of sense. There was something very wrong happening in his headHe was tired, obviously, and he also wondered if he was still suffering from a form of space sickness. But a part of him knew it was not even space sickness but instead something greater and more troubling.

_You have to let her go. There is a time to mourn in solitude, and a time to mourn in the presence of others. You can't be with her alone all the time._

But he needed her. While she had lived, she had been there for him all the times when, as a young boy, he had secluded himself in the family acreage and hidden up in a tree to escape reality. She had spent countless hours beside him during his childhood, sitting, saying the things that he needed to hear. He didn't know if his mother had ever truly understood him - but it had never mattered. She had loved him for what he was, and her acceptance had made a world of difference during a time in his youth when nothing seemed to be going right.

Things hadn't changed since then. The world was still the same in the way that it treated him. _He _was still the same as well. And life hadn't exactly been easy since she had died, either, so the comfort that he still needed couldn't be found in reality. Having spent most of his teenage years looking after his younger brothers, he hadn't had the time to settle and rectify things in his own mind. His mother had loved him deeply, and he couldn't let that feeling go when it did so much to keep him going. At a time when he didn't have the opportunity to find another source of compassion in his life, the recollection of her love was necessary. He still needed to hear her words. It didn't matter whether they were only fractured memories in his mind.

And up in space she was always present. He could look out the window, could see the sprawling nebula of Orion, and see her face etched out in the Hydrogen clouds. She whispered to him, her voice the sound of humming machinery and hissing filters. She was everywhere, because all he had to do was look around and realize that he was alone and without a lifeline, and the child-like self that was inside of him would take over, the part of him that could still feel Lucy Tracy's arms wrapped around his shoulders. The quietness was hypnotic, like having a blanket draped over his shoulder's to protect him from the chill air of the station.

He was alone, and when he was alone she always followed him. He couldn't help it.

_"John."_

John's head snapped upwards, the sudden echo of his mother's voice shaking him profoundly. He checked the speaker on the radio, wondering if Gordon or someone was playing a joke on him, and realised that it wasn't turned on. No one had called from the island. "Mom," he breathed, the words barely leaving his lips. "Mom?"

_"John."_

"Mom," John whispered slowly, closing his eyes in a vain attempt to block out the noise, "you're not here."

The voice was not his own doing, at least in any conscious manner that he could discern.

It had happened only the week before, when he had been studying books in his office at the Cape. It had not been intentional that time. Then, however, he had simply left the room, walked to the cafeteria, and drowned his sorrows in a pot of coffee before he had become too frightened to move. He knew that it had been the result of too little sleep, and the coffee had solved that problem until he had finally had time to lie down. Three days working on a report had been enough to sicken him and scare him out of his mind enough that he hadn't done a sleepless stint like that since.

Unfortunately, there was no coffee up on the space station.

_"John!"_

Or perhaps it _was _his fault. Perhaps the action to call her had become so entwined in his brain that it was no longer a conscious decision. The . . . hallucination that he had had at the Cape hadn't been so vivid, so real. Yet he had known what it was caused by, and even then it had worried him greatly. Even then, when he had been able to stop it, he had been concerned about his own health.

"You're not here," he said again, even louder, his voice becoming stressed. "There's no one here."

He could handle the voice when it was caused by his own intentions, and even needed it on many occasions in order to keep functioning.

When it wasn't, however, it was more than just disconcerting. It was terrifying. Because he knew what it implied, and he was fearful of the implications. And this time it wasn't _just _a hallucination that he was having from a lack of sleep. It was very vivid.

And it was very real.

_"John!" The voice echoed down the hallway of the hospital, intermixing with the continual beeping of a heart monitor. "John!"_

Scott's voice, echoing around the steel walls of the space station, scathed his thoughts like a blowtorch.

_"John!"_

The doctors were talking, their voices blending into a horrific and unending hum.

_"John Tracy!"_

"Shut up!"

_"Twenty minutes at the most." _

"No."

_"Likely less."_

By the man's tone, something was wrong.

They were right. There was something _seriously _wrong, but not with her - not with his mother. There was something seriously wrong with him. He was sick. He had spent too long in the ship without the gravity turned on. Nothing was making sense. Part of him latched onto the fact that he _was _hallucinating, but the part of his mind that would have acted on that information could not form any rational thoughts whatsoever.

It had sidestepped the illusion, had turned aside the factual evidence for it, and was staring at the real and naked cause of it all.

_"Likely less."_

Grabbing his ears with his hands, John shoved his head between his legs and tried with all of his willpower to shut out the noise. He was past being logical, past convincing his brain that it was just the station making noise and not a real human voice talking.

"Stop it!"

_"Their mother is dying! Let them in, good Lord!" _That was his father's voice.

He didn't want to see that again. He'd seen it every night for two years afterwards. That had been enough.

"No!" He screamed, as a primordial terror welled inside of him that he had not felt in a very long time. "No!"

_"It was better to let her go."_

_"Would she have woken up? With treatment? What about life support?"_

_  
"No. There was too much damage. Nothing would have helped."_

He wanted to wake-up. It was like a nightmare, one where he could bite and claw and scream and never awaken from.

_"Better to let her go."_

"LEAVE ME ALONE!"

The sound of his own voice - so raw and uncontrolled - snapped John out of his hallucination. The station had become incredibly quiet and was once again filled with the dull humming of the machinery and the computer circuits. There were no more sounds, no more whispers of his mother's voice.

It was all gone. Everything was quiet.

Feeling immensely nauseated, John stumbled from the chair and haphazardly made his way to the mattress that was spread out on the floor. His foot caught on the cord of the water plant, and that small change in momentum sent him sprawling forward, his face colliding with the tiling so hard that he could feel the skin on his forehead break.

He lay still, half on, half off the mattress, still recovering from what had struck him senseless. _You're exhausted,_ his mind whispered kindly. _It's not your fault. You need to sleep. You're gravely ill._

He didn't even notice the distinct feminine quality of the voice. He didn't care. Nothing mattered.

Sleep sounded all right to John. It was better than opening his eyes and remembering that he was alone, a universe away from the rest of his family. Soon the noise of the station faded away, and all that he saw was blackness. It was a pure blackness, not of space - speckled with stars - but of his mind.

It was in that way - delirious from prolonged weightlessness, exhausted from four sleepless nights in a row, and burdened from nearly seven years of emotional trauma - that John Tracy spent his first night as lone watcher aboard Thunderbird Five. Thankfully, there were no rescue calls.

* * *

On first awakening, John had no clue as to where he was. The feel of the mattress underneath him was foreign, and the noises of the place were very odd - not to mention the smell . . . 

Bolting upright - and immediately regretting it - John glanced around at his surroundings, and the memories of the previous night came flooding back to him.

He had let it happen again, John realised in horror. There had been other times when he had nearly given into whatever problem it was that plagued him psychologically. Times when he had been very stressed, moments when he had been very lonely – his mother's voice had pervaded all of them. But he had never, ever, fallen so completely for the products of his own mind. He had always intentionally created the effect before, a choice that he obviously had not made up on the space station. When he thought about it, it hadn't just been his mother's voice that he had heard. It had been a full-blown hallucination.

The episode at the Cape had been nothing compared to what he had just experienced.

"I'm a lunatic," he muttered out-loud, reaching up a hand to gingerly finger the bruising welt that had formed on his forehead. "A bloody lunatic." Glancing down at the floor, he suddenly understood both why his stomach was feeling better, and why the room smelled so rank.

"Wonderful." His brows furrowing, John willed away any remaining nausea and pushed himself onto his knees. "A good case of weightlessness could do anyone in. Dad's right. It's as bad as food poisoning!" Looking around, he quickly located a rag that he could use to mop up the floor. It was when he went to reach for the clean water tank that he realised what his little free-fall act had unplugged and knocked over the previous night.

"No," John moaned in exasperation, smacking his face in complete frustration at the sight of the dirty water tank tipped over, its contents long ago spilled onto the floor. "Great. Just great."

Most normal men would have just given up there, John knew. He was living in some God-forsaken reincarnation of Hades, and the place wasn't pulling its end of the bargain. He had no bed, no way to cook food, and now he had no clean water either. Sure, the device could be plugged back in, and liquid could be claimed from the air humidifiers, but still . . .

"You think you've won, huh," John grumbled at the station as he bent down to wipe absently at the vomit stain on the floor, "well don't get so cocky. Go ahead, do it again. Break. Fall apart. Explode if you want. See if I care."

_I'll fix it all. Just wait and see._

He had to – he had no other choice. When he stopped and considered the matter, there was no decision involved. His father needed him up on the station, or International Rescue wouldn't be able to operate at maximum efficiency.

Above all else, _he_ needed to be up on the station. He needed to take the job, needed to put himself in a position where he could help his father and his family. Nothing else seemed remotely as important anymore. He _wanted_ the job, wanted it with every fibre of his being. Four days on the station had shown him more feelings of wonderment than he had amassed in a lifetime on the ground.

But, in the seclusion of the space station lay the painful and burning memories of his mother. It was how he had always coped with being alone, and why he wanted to be alone. He needed no other company, because his mother was always there with him, and he wanted nothing else most of the time.

And it had to stop.

His lips tightening, John stopped scrubbing the floor for a moment so that he could think the matter through. He was going to remain on the station – that much was fact. After everything that he had done, he couldn't possibly abandon the post. But something else had to go, either his sanity or . . . his mother. He couldn't rely on childish and unhealthy delusions in order to survive in the secluded environment. It was his method of coping with stress, but it could only go so far before it became dangerous.

All things were good in moderation, but he was far past that point.

He was flirting with insanity. Perhaps he had already crossed the line . . .

"I've been running away," John whispered out loud, dropping the cloth to the ground so that he could wrap his arms about his knees. "God, I am a coward." The words stung like fire against his mind, but he didn't stop. "You're a stupid coward, John. You knew she was gone, and you couldn't let her go!" He bent over so that, in his kneeling position, his forehead tickled the ground. "How could you let it get like this? Coward!" The words exploded mercilessly from his mouth. "Bloody coward!"

_Everyone else could let her go,_ John thought angrily, _everyone. When they finally understood, knew she was gone, they let her go. Virgil, Gordon, Alan, Scott, maybe even Dad – they did it on their own. They've been so strong. They faced reality and put it behind them._

Memories came back to him of an early morning when John's father had come home from the graveyard only to be confronted by his second eldest son. He had been so sure then of his thoughts, so devoted to keeping his family together that he had not actually considered whether he believed his own words. He had convinced his father to let go of his wife – yet he had failed to convince himself. Instead, the same thing had eventually afflicted him, growing more and more controlling as the years had passed. He couldn't stand to go a day without hearing her voice, even if he knew it was only in his mind.

"I can't let go," John finally sobbed. A pair of tears trickled down his cheeks to fall onto the steel floor. "Mom, I don't want to leave you."

He waited to hear her voice, the calming voice that always spoke to him when he needed it the most.

He knew that he couldn't. He knew with every ounce of his being that it had to stop.

"Oh Mom, I'm not this strong."

Then, just above the level of a whisper, a quiet voice answered, _"Johnny, where are you going? Are you leaving? It's a little late to be stargazing. Why don't you come back inside?"_

Clenching his eyes shut, John tried to will the tears to stop. There was only one thing that he could do – he had to continue on his own, without his mother. He had to put her away for good and had to try and find in himself some speck of the courage that his father had spoken of days earlier. The severity of his situation was suddenly painfully obvious to him, a situation that he had blatantly ignored for too many years.

Slowly, for it was not easy, he ignored the pain that throbbed in his head and stomach and willed his eyes to open. Then, ever so slowly, he stood up, walked over to the window, and looked outside into the blackness.

The effect of the stars on him was dramatic. They sent a rush of adrenaline into his veins and began a chain of explosions in his heart that combated and fought with the feelings that he had for his mother.

"You love this," he whispered, "you love this, John." The next words were frank and full of emotion. "You love this as much as you love Mom. If you love mom, you have to do this, and you can't do it with her." He raised a hand to wipe tears from his face, trying hard not to break down into sobs. "You're going to be isolated. You might be lonely. But you're going to do this on your own, with whatever family you have left. It's time that you talked to them instead."

The stars twinkled in response.

_"Johnny, do you see that star? That's Sirius, the Dog Star. Isn't it pretty?" _The memory gnawed at his mind, trying to find a way through his defences.

"I won't disappoint you, Mom," John offered feebly, knowing that the promise itself was a sign of weakness, but also knowing that it was the best that he could do. It was too searing to let her go without at least saying goodbye. "I'm sorry, Mom. I can't talk to you anymore. If I do, I don't know what will happen. But there are people still alive that I care about. And, if I love them," his voice became hoarse, "I can't keep you. I can't live in a lie. I don't want to lose them too."

He understood, then, what the hallucination the previous night had been trying to tell him. Some part of his mind must have seen the danger, must have recognized it for what it was, and had tried to warn him. It had seen the path that he had been taking, had plotted the course to oblivion, and had decided to make an adjustment in his direction. It had shown him what would happen if he continued going along the same route: where his future would lie, where he would end up if he continued to hold on.

It had shown him insanity.

_Better to let her go._

It started now.

_"Johnny, I love you."_ The voice sounded desperate, as if begging John to reconsider.

He didn't. The last words that he spoke, broken so that they were barely audible, finally brought a whimper from his throat. They were the words that he should have spoken eight years ago, when Lucy Tracy had passed away peacefully in her hospital bed. "I love you too, Mom. Good-bye."

* * *

Taking a long sip from his morning coffee, Jeff Tracy closed his eyes and tried to will his body to wake up. He had spent a very long, sleepless night staring up at the ceiling, unable to sleep for fear that John would call and need help. Though he had a great deal of faith in his son, he couldn't shake the feeling that things could and were happening beyond his control. 

"Morning, Scott," he called from the top of the stairs leading to the study. "Sleep well?"

"Sure," Scott called back from the kitchen, his voice cheerful. "I'm putting another pot of coffee on. Do you want some?"

"No, I've probably had enough." Jeff rubbed his brow tiredly and slowly made his way down the stairs. "I think I drank enough for you and me both last night."

"Couldn't sleep?" As Jeff came into the kitchen from the back stairwell, Scott turned around and gave his father a curious look. "You slept in the study?"

Jeff shrugged and plopped himself down on one of the table chairs. "You know me, Scott."

Scott, still dressed in his pyjamas and wearing a bright blue housecoat, chuckled and poured his father another cup of coffee. "Here, for us poorly addicted souls."

Taking the cup with a gracious nod, Jeff set his empty glass down and took a sip of the fresh brew. "Hmm. Tastes better than day-old, at least."

"So," Scott gave his father a concerned look, "what's on you mind? I mean," he sighed, "it's not as if I can't guess, but-"

"You want me to say it," Jeff finished dryly, a lopsided grin coming to his face. "So that you're not implicated in bringing the matter up."

"Something like that."

Both men took a long sip from their drinks, then slammed the cups to the tabletop. It had become a routine of sorts, Scott making the beans and Jeff downing the drink as fast as he could before his son finished the entire pot.

"Have you talked to him yet?"

"No," the older Tracy sighed, stirring his coffee absently - though he never put any cream in - with his finger. "I'm sure that he's fine, though. I'm just prone to worrying."

"Old man's prerogative," Scott replied teasingly, "you know that. It's your right as a father to worry about your children. But if John weren't so horribly odd in some of his ways, I'd probably be worried too."

"Hmm?"

Scott nodded, "Oh, yeah, he'll get completely wrapped up in his work up there. I'm sure you've noticed it before. He always did down here. I'd go into our room, and he'd have books piled from the floor to the roof. Never spoke a word to me the entire week of high school exams, just sat and stared at his notes."

"Of course I noticed. He's a good kid," Jeff replied, his mind half on Earth and half at the station. "We left him in a virtual hell-hole up there."

"He'll be fine," Scott chuckled, "as long as you left him some place to go pee."

Giving his son a rueful look, Jeff shook his head and muttered, "If the water purifier's even working. Hardly anything on that hunk is functioning anymore. We made a hell of a mess."

"Just give him a few days," Scott said firmly, "and you'll see what he does to it. Disorder alone is enough to drive John up the wall. Hell Dad, a whole station of it? He'll have it cleaned up in no time."

* * *

"I'm glad you're going to call him." 

Jeff looked up at Scott, who was now fully dressed, then back down at his computer terminal. "I'm beginning to get worried. I thought he would call in by now."

A few quick taps and clicks brought up the communications screen to Thunderbird Five. _"Welcome! Enter Password:"._

"We should really get this gene coded," Jeff muttered absently, keying in the pass-code.

Scott's eyebrow jumped in amusement. "Think someone's going to raid the place?"

"Paranoia," Jeff replied, tapping his fingers impatiently as the two computers connected via radio. "We've put so much time on this, and I don't want to blow it."

"Virgil had a good idea about this room," Scott offered, "he mentioned something about making a mural for the wall, that we could put in front of the door to hide it a bit better."

"_Doors_," Jeff added as an afterthought, "my feet can't take anymore of the pounding that you give them when we both jump into that hallway at the same time. I'm going to have some lifts installed."

"True."

The computer chimed, and brought up onto the screen the words, _"PASSWORD ACCEPTED: Initialising Audio and Visual Link"_.

Several long and agonising minutes passed before the computer returned any other message at all. During that time, both Jeff and Scott simply stared in silence at the screen. Finally, the monitor flipped on, and John's battered and bruised face came onto the screen.

Jeff's eyes went wide, as did Scott's. "John! What the hell happened?"

"I couldn't sleep," the blond-haired man replied quietly, his eyes dark and puffy with a mixture of what appeared to be exhaustion and bruising. "So I put myself out of my misery."

"What?" Scott cried, his face shocked.

"I'm joking," John sighed, "if you haven't already figured that out."

"Then what _happened_?" Jeff finally spit out, concern playing across his face.

"I fell."

"On what?"

"The floor!" John grumbled in irritation. "What else? There's nothing else to fall on!"

Scott and Jeff traded glances, each unsure of what to say.

"Do you want me to come up and help?" Jeff finally asked out of curiosity.

"No." There was no room for compromise in John's tone. "No. I have everything under control."

"Uh huh."

His eyes narrowing even further, John glared at his brother. "Have a little faith."

Scott's lip curled up slightly, and he couldn't resist poking fun at John. "Want me to clap?"

"I'm not Tinkerbell," John snorted, "but I think I can work a little pixie dust on this place. Just wait. I installed the toilet this morning -"

"You're sure predictable."

Ignoring his brother's badgering, John continued, "and I'm going to get to work on the cooking stuff that Brains sent up. I really want something decent to eat."

Decidedly satisfied, Jeff nodded and folded his arms across his stomach. "John, I'm really impressed. I was honestly quite worried about you when I left last night."

"Oh, I'm fine," John replied quickly. "I really didn't sleep too badly. Hit the pillow-"

"The floor," corrected Scott politely.

"The floor, and slept like a baby." He glanced off screen for a moment. "By the way, did you re-route the transmissions down to your office?"

Jeff nodded once again. "I thought you deserved a decent rest. We can start up the manual systems once you're adjusted to your new quarters."

"There is a bed in one of these boxes, right?" John was once again looking at a point off screen. "Am I right?"

"Somewhere. Brains said that one of the storage rooms should work just fine for your quarters. The station is large to begin with, because of the array size, and there's plenty of extra space."

"Good." John was silent for a moment, and the mild aggravation that had been present on his face began to fade away. "Dad, I'm sorry," he finally sighed, rubbing his bruise absently with his hand. "I shouldn't have flipped out on you. I've just had," he paused, searching for the right word, "a very _long_ morning."

"I understand," Jeff assured him quietly. "We left you with quite a mess yesterday, which I feel badly about. And it's no surprise that you passed out – don't look at me that way, John, your face gave it away - you were looking awfully ill, even after we activated the gravity well. Even the most trained astronauts get sick sometimes. Your body is still adjusting."

"Aside from that," Scott interrupted, "how is it up there?"

Bobbing his head up and down several times, as if mentally chewing on his lip, John shrugged and turned his head to the side. "Pretty nice. The view is spectacular." A tiny smile crept onto his face. "Think you could send my scopes up in the next batch?"

"Definitely," promised Jeff, pulling out a pad of paper from the desk so that he could make a note. "Anything else?"

"Not for now. I need to get all of this important stuff installed first." He shook his head, the smile becoming more determined. "This lousy son of a bitch tried to beat me last night. Well, it's not going to win."

Scott and Jeff traded another set of worried looks, the older man finally shrugging in confusion. "Do you want to talk about it?" Jeff asked carefully, making sure not to accidentally bring up any topic that happened to be sensitive at the moment. "Based on what you're saying, I think you've had more than a 'long morning'."

John shook his head. "I'm fine." His eyes relaxed ever so slightly, as his face became a mask of emotions. "I can do this, Dad."

"John-"

"Dad," John's voice with firm. "I can do this."

"We know you can," Scott interrupted swiftly, cutting the argument off in the bud. "And Dad and I will do our best to get some stuff together for you when it's time to take up the next batch. What would you like?"

"Chocolate?" John asked hopefully. "Please? Helps with depression . . ."

"Sure thing," laughed Jeff, making another note on the paper. "Anything else?"

Scott snorted. "More food, maybe?"

"A picture." An odd look of guilt crossed John's face as he spoke, and the smile disappeared from his lips.

Jeff took a long look at his son and tried to figure out what had suddenly caused John to become so withdrawn. He knew that it likely had to do with what happened the night before, for the look on John's face was similar to the expression that he had worn when Jeff had first called the station. "A picture," Jeff echoed, and John nodded. "Of what?"

"Of Mom."

Jeff studied John's face, seeing for the first time the subtle traces that crying left on the human complexion. He thought for a long moment, then nodded slowly and made one last note on the notepad. "Will do, John."

"Thanks Dad," the blond replied quietly, trying to casually wipe the mist that was growing in his eyes. "It'd mean a lot to me." He turned his head and gazed in the direction of view port. A smile gnawed at the edge of his eyes, easing Jeff's fears that his son was unhappy where he was.

"Is that all?" Scott asked, drawing the conversation back to its original point.

"Yeah, it should be." The smile crept more openly onto the young man's face. "Thanks, guys. You've both been a huge help." He absently ran a hand through his hair. "I'm going to get back to work up here. Maybe when you come up next, I'll be able to have dinner ready for you."

"All right, John," Jeff laughed, raising his hand to his head in a military style salute. "I'll have the stuff ready for you next week. Try and keep sane until then."

The last comment was enough to force the grin directly onto John's tired and battered face. The young man grinned in resignation and shook his head as if in amusement. "You too, Dad." John reached down and keyed in something into his computer.

"Thunderbird Five out."

* * *

So ends Part III, and so begins John's life in space. The story will be moving on now, and I think many of you will be pleased to see the introduction of another character in the next chapter. ;) Thank you to everyone that took the time out to review. (sighs) I hope everyone else is still reading and that they haven't abandoned me for the long delay last chapter. Lol 

Review responses:

**Ariel D** - I made a mistake earlier: there _are_ a couple more 'John' chapters later on. I think they're chapter 23 and 25. :) They're not entirely about John, but the focus is more in that direction.  
**Ms. Imagine** - Thank you so much! This scene was very vivid in my head while I was writing it, and I'm glad to see that it transferred to paper.  
**Assena** - I think the fear of flying originated (sadly enough) from the scene in the movie when they're returning to Earth. Even though he's injured, I thought he looked oddly seasick for someone who is an astronaut! Lol So he ended up with a phobia. It's actually a fear of heights from childhood, and when I get around to posting my other five-part story with Lucy you might see why it transferred to flying. Thanks for your wonderful comments!  
**Zeilfanaat** - I'm still not satisfied with the end product of the story, because some characters receive a lot more 'screen-time' than others do. Brains ended up with a fair amount, actually, which I'm happy about. (whispers) I'm glad that she's beta reading too. ;) Oh, you really should give her a FP for the next chapter since she did double duty on this one and read it twice.

* * *

Next chapter, Scott encounters a sweet and mysterious British agent in "Yes M'lady!". Until then, FAB all! 


	22. Yes, M'lady

_Dislcaimer: Thunderbirds is the property of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, as well as Carlton and Universal. No profit is intended to be made from this story; it is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended, and none should be inferred. The short reference to Star Trek is not claimed copyright either, and is owned by its respected owner.

* * *

_

**Yes, M'lady  
****April 2018**

The city of London, capital of Great Britain and home to the greatest tea that Scott Tracy had ever tasted, was burning. Or, to be more precise, the department building in the downtown district was burning. The old four-story shack had caught fire in the early hours of the morning, and the blaze had quickly spread to three neighbouring buildings before the fire department had arrived.

Surveying the scene from a safe distance, Scott leaned carefully on the portable computer from Thunderbird One, his brows furrowed in confusion. He tapped absently at the metal control box, thanking his father silently for sending the object along in the first place. The portable computer, 'Mobile Control' as Brains called it, provided him greater communications access with Thunderbird Five, and a place on ground to actually carry out computations.

In effect, he could co-ordinate the entire rescue operation from the site itself, rather than being forced to spend an exorbitant amount of time in his ship. It freed him up to do work directly at the rescue site, something that Scott appreciated more than anything. Even if he wasn't always involved with the actual rescue, being able to see what was going on eased his heart.

Making up his mind, Scott reached over and flicked a switch on the computer. "Virgil, how're you coming?"

"Just fine." The younger man's voice came clearly over the comm system, filled with a hint of excitement. "The crews are getting everything under control."

It was not routine for Virgil to be sitting in on a mission, especially with his schooling still unfinished. And it was unusual for spring break to be so late into the month, but circumstances that Scott didn't fully understand had forced the school to let out later than expected. But, as their father had noted when the rescue call had come in, spring break was spring break, and Virgil was showing no signs of easing up on his studies.

June would come soon enough, but it had happened that Virgil's first mission had come a great deal earlier then that. He was now on his third, and the ease with which he had settled into the role of pilot of Thunderbird Two still surprised Scott; the young man had obviously been practising in the simulator during his free time at home. He honestly wondered how they would handle without the extra hands when it came time for Virgil to go back to school for the last few months of the academic year.

"How's Dad?"

"Fine. Firefly is working like a charm."

Firefly was another product of Brain's imagination, one that Brains and Scott's father had managed to build in a few short weeks after conception. The machine, in essence a large bulldozer fitted with a fire-fighting spray and heat-resistant coating, had proved absolutely integral to International Rescue operations. Virgil had even lent a hand in the building when he had arrived home from school.

Scott smiled at the thought of Virgil hunched over the hulking frame of Firefly, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he welded the parts together. As much as Virgil claimed to enjoy his music and art, there was no doubting his passion for engineering. There was no doubting his skill in the trade either.

The strong voice of his father shook Scott from his reverie. "Scott, are you worried about your old man?"

"Of course not," Scott laughed, only half-joking. "We know that you're smart enough to turn tail if things get too hot."

"Scott, sometimes I wonder-"

The older man's voice was cut off suddenly. The sound of cracking plaster instead filled the comm, and a quick snap of Scott's head had him facing the building just in time to see an entire side wall come tumbling to the ground. A cloud of smoke went up in the air, and flames from the inside jumped high towards the sky.

"Dad, are you okay!" Scott choked, waving his hand in an attempt to clear the air. "Dad?"

"He's fine," a calm and collected voice put in. The cool tones of John Tracy were unmistakable. "I've still got a lock on his vitals. Heart rate's up a bit."

"No wonder," Scott murmured, shaking his head in relief. "Is he stuck?"

"I can see him," Virgil jumped in, his voice relieved also. "Firefly's pulling out from the rubble. Looks a little scratched up, but otherwise it's in one piece."

"That was a warm reception," their father finally joked over the comm system. The humour in his words was not able to disguise the worry that was in his voice. "Too close for comfort."

"You should let one of us do that next time," Virgil said quietly, "just in case. We wouldn't want to lose our commander."

John's patient snort resounded from the speaker. "You guys had better learn to calm down, or you might both drop from heart attacks. Virg, do you have any idea what _your _vitals looked like twenty seconds ago? You were worrying me!"

"We could remove the monitors," Scott argued, busily cueing some data into Mobile Control to be analysed. "Then you wouldn't have to worry about us."

"I'm not a heart-rate expert. I'm a scientist, not a biologist."

"There's no difference, Doctor McCoy," Scott snorted.

"Boys." The older man's tone was firm. "We're still at an accident scene. Try and at least remain semi-professional."

Scott sighed, bit back his final jab at his brother, and returned to his work at Mobile Control. "Check, Dad. Sorry about that."

"Fire's almost out, Dad, you can probably pull back. The crew can touch up the hotspots." From Thunderbird Five, John could not only see the fire by tapping into other space satellites, he could access the Thunderbirds' own sensor displays and analyse the information for the pilots.

A smile crept onto Scott's face, easing in amongst the black soot and sweat that had been deposited there. It had been the right choice to allow John to go up to the satellite, just as it had been the right choice to allow Virgil to help with operations over break. Both had become indispensable members of the team, and he could not imagine International Rescue functioning without either of them present.

"Thanks, John. Pulling Firefly out now."

* * *

"I must thank you for your help." 

For the fifth time, Scott shook his head, smiled broadly, and tried to convince himself that the man would eventually stop. "Really, sir, it's my job. You can thank us, however, by making sure that no pictures are taken of our craft as we leave and assuring us that we will not be tracked." The dark haired pilot raised an eyebrow. "I assure you, we have methods of keeping that all from happening, but we'd much rather have it happen willingly. I wouldn't want to have to wipe this area with an EM wave just because someone is camera happy."

The head of the local fire department nodded in relief and gave the Thunderbird pilot a thankful slap on the shoulder. "My good man, if it weren't for you, there'd be a large number of families without a place to stay in the future. As it is, the apartment was smoke and water damaged, but these people should be able to move back in a few months time when things are sorted out and cleaned up."

"That's good to hear," Scott murmured, reaching up a hand to brush the radio transmitter that rested near his lips. "Did you catch that, control?"

"Sure did, Scott. I'll pass that onto Thunderbird Two immediately."

"Thanks John." Scott sighed, then jumped out to grab the fire fighter as he was about to leave. "Sir, is there any news on the cause of the fire?"

"Arson," the man replied darkly, "without a doubt. Some bloke heaved a gasoline can into the elevator shaft of the department store. Almost took a whole floor down with it. We're lucky it was early in the morning, or someone could have been seriously injured. Don't know how they got in, either. They must have broken in somehow without triggering the alarm."

Arson, Scott thought in disgust, wishing he could get his hands around the neck of the man who had lit the fire. Glancing over to the building, he caught sight of a small group of people clustered about. By their dishevelled looks there was no doubt that they were the families from the apartment complex. The children, their faces black with smoke and eyes wide with shock, walked about as if in a trance. The adults were no better, gazing about with empty eyes at the destruction around them.

"I'd like to get that guy and wring his dirty little neck." The pilot folded his arms crossly, trying to gain some satisfaction from only visualising the scene. "Bastard. What kind of man does that to children?"

The fire fighter nodded, shifting his weight so that he could gaze up at the wrecked hulk of the department store. "A bloody sick one."

Though he tried to deny it, Scott also knew that part of his anger stemmed from his own experiences as a child. He could still remember clearly the horror of seeing the monorail wreck that had killed his mother. The mangled steel, the still smouldering rubble - it had almost been too much for him. Even days after the accident, when it had partially been cleaned up, it had still been horrifying.

And the children, watching their building burn around them, likely felt no different.

"Bastard." The words were searing and harsh, and he wished that the man - he was sure it was a man, for reasons that he could not explain - responsible would step out so that he could test out the laser pistol that Brains had armed him with the week earlier.

His father had specifically stated that the gun was only to be used in the most desperate of circumstances. Scott was ready to argue the point if it came down to that.

Another thought, however, nagged at the back of his mind and refused to go away. "Why?" he muttered, finally having a chance to puzzle through the thing that had disturbed him since he had first landed his craft and surveyed the damage. "Why?"

"Delinquent?" The fireman offered with a shrug. "I don't know why people burn things, but it happens often enough. Lord knows we put out enough fires set with gasoline."

Nodding, Scott's attention was suddenly on the commotion that had sprung up around the building. A shouting match had erupted between the fireman and -

Without thinking, Scott pushed the fireman out of his way and dashed towards the crumbling hulk of the department store. He activated the out-going setting on his headset with one hand, and absently drew the laser gun with his other. Habits of the armed forces apparently died hard. "John," he called into his headset, "what's going on?"

His brother took a moment to respond, and when he did, his voice was filled with confusion. "There's some sort of scuffle going on. The firefighters are trying to subdue a man." There was a pause and a noise as John flipped switches in an attempt to listen in on a different radio line. "He's trying to get in the building through a side entrance. He's wearing a ski-mask. Damn it."

"What happened?"

"He just hit some guy over the head with a metal container. No, wait. It's an industrial lighter."

_What the hell_? Scott wondered, clenching his teeth and pushing his body even harder. A few more strides had him at the edge of a gathering crowd, though he could hear shouts coming from inside the circle. "Let me through!" When the crowd didn't listen, Scott sighed and firmly pushed aside the people nearest to him. "I'm with International Rescue! Let me through!"

The last few words did it. The people parted almost effortlessly before him, letting the grey-suited pilot through to the front of the building in mere seconds . . .

Just in time to see the man break away from the fire fighters and rush into the front of the building.

"Dammit." Stopping in front of the fire fighters, one of which was nursing a bleeding nose, Scott pointed at the building and frowned. "I'm going after him."

"Sir," one of the men responded, helping his comrade to his feet, "the structure isn't stable. It could go at any moment."

A deep growl escaped Scott's throat, and he turned towards the building. At the moment he could care less about structural stability and the threat of injury. What he wanted, more than anything, was to ram the man into the wall, handcuff him, and hand him over to the police for arrest.

"Scott!" The worried voice of his father suddenly came over the radio line. "Scott, what are you doing?"

"He's getting away!" Scott grimaced as he touched the frame of the door and found it still hot. A quick glance inside revealed a smouldering pile of wreckage.

"He's not going anywhere," the older man argued over the crackling comm system, "let him run. The police will get him."

Without answering, Scott carefully took three steps into the building. The smoke was immediately in his eyes and his mouth, choking him and blinding him. Reaching into a utility pouch, he brought out a small breathing apparatus that tied easily to his face.

"Scott!"

It was not International Rescue's mandate to arrest criminals, a fact that Scott understood very well. But in a way that Scott did not completely understand, the arsonist had made the situation very personal, and he intended to finish it himself.

With a flick of his wrist Scott snapped off the receiver portion of his comm-set. He didn't need any distractions. With the breathing mask finally set properly, he took a long breath and disappeared fully into the building.

* * *

Watching the young International Rescue operative dash into the building, a discreetly dressed figure raised a finger to her lips and shook her head in disappointment. The woman wore a bland white cowl about her head which covered her luxurious blond hair, and her navy blue coat and pants – though stylish if one took the time to consider them carefully - afforded her a degree of anonymity that was crucial to her work. 

"Parker," she whispered delicately, the words carrying into a receiver built directly into a broach that she wore on the neck of her jacket, "the arsonist is getting away."

The cowl also cleverly covered the small radio receiver that rested against her ear. From the receiver, the thickly accented voice of a man responded, "Yes, m'lady. Should I pursue?"

"No," the woman said, a cultured British accent rolling the words around and giving them a lushness that few others could manage. "He's already inside, and I fear you won't reach him in time." She carefully checked to make sure that her automatic was tucked in tightly to her belt. "I'll follow him."

For a reason that she could not identify, Penelope Creighton-Ward did not inform her butler Parker of the presence of the International Rescue man in the building. As she prepared to follow him in, she realized why the young man had startled her.

Somehow, buried within twenty-two years worth of memories, she was sure that she had seen him before.

* * *

At some point on the second floor Scott realized that he was being trailed. The quiet yet distinct sound of heels on concrete echoed amidst the noise of smouldering and falling steel. The fact that he was followed didn't bother Scott so much as the identifying noise of the shoes did. He had half-expected the police force to trail him inside, but he had never heard of a police officer wearing stilettos. 

Stopping behind a steel support bar that was not completely melted, the pilot hid himself and carefully peered out from behind the metal. The ground was covered in the charred ruins of household appliances, but there was plenty of clear space to see across the room. Sure enough, on the far side beside what appeared to have been a refrigerator, stood a figure – a woman, he saw – dressed in a dark and concealing jacket. Her right hand rested absently on her pant line, and when she moved Scott thought he saw a flash of metal underneath the cloth.

Suddenly, things had become a great deal more complicated. In his experience in the military Scott had been exposed to many different organisations, most of which had their own rules and regulations about firearms. There were very few, however, that actually allowed their men or women to carry them on a regular basis. By the calm and official demeanour of the woman, he could tell that she was no thug. Every movement of her body was intentional and spoke of control and purpose.

_So British Intelligence is involved,_ he thought, his eyes still on the woman. _Very interesting. There must be more happening here than meets the eye._

Assured that the agent likely posed no threat to him, but not wanting to take too many chances all the same, Scott leaned out from the beam and took a longer and clearer look at the woman. She had a very nice build, he noted with an unintentional grin, and even from the side he could see the locks of golden hair that tumbled out from under her cowl hood. It was strange, he thought, but she seemed oddly familiar even from a distance.

As if sensing his presence, the woman turned suddenly and stared in his direction. Blue eyes met blue eyes, and a flash of recognition passed through Scott's mind like a bolt of lightning. He _had_ seen her somewhere before, though he could not quite place a finger on it.

That thought, and the realisation that his cover was likely blown, hit Scott like an incoming missile. When the woman's eyebrows rose in surprise as she too saw something that she knew, he understood that he now had two situations in his hands. The arsonist had to be apprehended, that was fact. But the woman also had to be dealt with in one way or another. He didn't know if she knew exactly who he was or where he came from, but the chance that she might remember . . .

* * *

A blast of feelings flashed through Penelope's mind as her eyes looked over the man. He was tall, taller than quite a few other men, and was strong featured all across the face. His dark brown hair, swept back from sweat and smoke, framed a pair of blue eyes that were so proud-looking and – 

Familiar. Very familiar.

But she couldn't place the young man in an exact memory, only a set of feelings that she remembered having carried since a time in her childhood. Perhaps she had been at school with him, she thought, only to discard that after remembering that she had never at any time been at a school with boys. They had met before, though, that she was sure of. And by the look on his face, the same startled expression that she likely carried on her own, she knew that her feelings were not forged.

Slowly, so as not to pose a threat, she raised her head and motioned calmly with her left hand. Understanding what she meant, the young man nodded and stepped out fully from the beam so that he was standing exposed in the middle of the smouldering floor. Glancing around for smoke, he shrugged and pulled off the air mask that he wore about his face.

"International Rescue," she observed politely, her voice calm and to the point.

"British Intelligence," the man replied in the same collected voice, his eyebrow rising slightly as if in victory. "It looks as though we're after the same man."

Penelope chose her next words very carefully. She intended to end the conversation there and had no intention of revealing to the man why she was at the building in the first place. "I wasn't aware that International Rescue was in charge of making arrests."

The young man laughed and slowly walked towards her. "I wasn't aware that there was anything in this building to concern British Intelligence. Besides, don't the police normally handle this type of work?" He grinned. "It looks like we're both out of our place."

That put a damper on her efforts. Penelope bit her lip and gave the young man as stern a look as she could manage. When he only grinned and laughed, she realized what he was trying to do. "Flirting will do you no good at all," she declared sternly, irritated that she was being put in that type of position in the first place. "I'll have you know that I deal with men of your kind all the time. Being friendly to me will get you no further in my books than if you tried to kill me."

"My type?" The young man snorted and held his ground several feet in front of her. "I'm not a flirt, ma'am. I'm simply assessing the situation and dealing with it as my organisation's protocol deems fit. I think you're being a little bit too hasty in judging me."

"As are you," Penelope replied tersely, "in your assessment of my chest. Now, if you could kindly disengage your eyes, we can proceed with our chase. And, if that is the case, you may also wish to revise your protocols."

The man's face turned a very dark shade of red, and he honestly looked embarrassed at Penelope's accusation. "Sorry, ma'am."

"And I am not a 'ma'am'," she continued as she resumed her walk across the destroyed sales floor. "You may address me as Lady." Once again back in her element, Penelope felt confident that she could – with the help of the young man – apprehend the criminal at large. With only one way out of the building that was passable, the arsonist had nowhere to go. If it had been the man's attempt to steal away unnoticed while the building was deserted and smouldering in the early hours of the morning, then he would find an unexpected surprise waiting for him when he tried leave.

* * *

_And you can call me Scott_, the pilot thought, but he kept the words to himself. He had no intentions of pushing the topic any further. It was never Scott Tracy's intentions to irritate a beautiful woman, especially one with as much class and character as his companion, but he _was _used to dealing with woman who were too distracted by his own looks to bother fighting back. It had helped on occasion during rescues, for John had observed several times – all too dryly, Scott remembered – that he could hear the ladies swooning over the radio. 

But the blond woman was quite the looker herself, and he unintentionally found his eyes wandering back to her face as the two of them silently picked their way up the stairs to the third floor. There was something alluring about her, something appealing about her suave ways and her sharp wit. It was something that he had never found in women during his high school years, or even during his time spent with the airforce. Those ladies were generally either too soft or too strong, and Scott preferred something more in the middle.

The delicate lady spy, whom he was sure would blow off his head in a moment's notice if she had to, was a nice combination.

"Danger is apparently enticing," Scott muttered in amusement, thoroughly enjoying being in the presence of a woman who quite obviously could think for herself. It was refreshing to _not_ be dealing with fainthearted women who had a tendency to chase him around after he saved their life.

He could distinctly hear John's happy ramble in the back of his head. _"Quit playing around with their emotions, Scott. We can't save people from heartache you know."_

Scott knew – though his brother obviously enjoyed poking fun at him – that his words were lacking real feelings of jealousy behind them. They both knew that for either of them, especially John, finding any sort of companionship would be nearly impossible given their occupation. It came with the job. The secrecy, the lack of identity – the joy of being able to flirt around with every female that he spoke to, only to have to let her go again when the mission was over . . .

Scott sighed without even realising it. He had told himself over and over again that that portion of the job wouldn't bother him, yet it always seemed to come up over and over again in his mind. He could never actually become involved with anyone, for the secrecy of International Rescue was more important than anything else.

And, he thought, the British woman was refreshing, but she was also dangerous. As much as he hated to admit it, he really had never dealt with a woman who was as strong-willed as the one who stood before him. She had batted back his remarks as if she had been playing tennis, which was something that made him uncomfortable.

_If Gordon ever hears about this,_ Scott thought glumly,_ I'll never hear the end of it._ Scott – the ladies' man who always won over the hearts of women, only to bravely discard them after the fact out of necessity – would be free picking for months. Making up his mind, Scott decided that he couldn't let that happen. Even if it happened in the smallest of ways, he had to gain the upper hand over the British spy. There was plenty that he could do without ever giving the woman his name. It might only be a game, and a brief game at that, but it was a game that he was going to play to win.

"You nearly had me."

Scott looked up startled as the woman spoke. She was nearly half a stairwell above him, and looked down on him with her face framed in the remnants of an outdoor window. The sunlight caught at the edges of her hair, given a halo effect to her already porcelain like face.

"Excuse me?"

The woman waited a few moments for him to catch up, then continued her jaunt up the stairs. "That was well-executed." The words sounded like a confession to Scott, an admission that was forced from her lips.

Completely confused, Scott shook his head and repeated, "Excuse me?"

The woman's smile was dazzling. "Your charade, little man." Scott bristled slightly at the brush off. "It was well done. You must have women simply falling off you in droves. Every rescue, hmm?"

"Oh." Unsure of what to say, he tried another grin and hoped that it would suffice. "Yeah, my brother always jokes about that."

She raised a curious eyebrow. "A brother?"

_Shit._ Scott mentally slapped himself. Eventually he was going to say something serious, something that could be used against his family if it fell into the wrong hands. He didn't know exactly what British Intelligence thought of International Rescue, but he knew that if Intelligence knew things, then inevitably someone else could steal those secrets and put them to evil purposes.

"Not in the business," he finally clarified, hoping that she couldn't see that he was lying through his teeth. "He just knows about it."

"Really." They both stopped walking, having finally arrived at the fire exit to the forth floor.

"Yeah." Suddenly very worried that he was about to say something very foolish, Scott wondered why it was he that had to be stuck in the predicament. _Isn't this what you always say you want?_ He thought, laughing at his own stupidity. _Stuck in a smouldering building with a beautiful woman who's about to kick your ego to the moon?_

The woman smiled again, that smile that made his cheeks flush, and leaned in very close to scrutinise his face. He could feel her breath on his lips, wanted to do something about it desperately, but his brain was completely frozen. He was scared to move for fear of getting a knee in the groin.

"Do you know what I would love to do?" The woman whispered teasingly, bringing her hand up to caress his face.

"Uh."

She smiled sweetly, a hint of naughtiness coming to her eyes. "Catch that man upstairs, get out of here, and put a thousand miles between me and the blushing man in uniform in front of me." Her finger flicked his cheek playfully, and she turned and grabbed hold of the handle to the fire doors.

Scott stood for a moment while his brain tried to unthaw. The first thought that crossed his mind, when a thought finally did, sent a second wave of embarrassment onto his cheeks.

_She was playing you, dude. Good move. You were completely suckered._

He knew right there that he would likely never live it up with the woman – if he ever saw her again outside of the rescue. She had suckered him completely, hook line and sinker, and he – in all of his proud arrogance – had bit and chewed.

As if sensing his mood, the woman turned and gestured impatiently towards the door. "If you would be so kind, I require some assistance opening this. It seems to be blocked from the other side."

Scott heard the words but stood and thought for a long time before answering. When he finally did, it was with a sly smile of his own. He stalked forward determinedly, braced his shoulder against the door, and heaved as hard as he could. The metal groaned under the impact, and he hit it again, and again, until it finally snapped and the door flew open under his weight.

Turning to the lady, Scott bowed ever so slightly and gestured into the room. "After you, m'lady."

He took great pleasure in the ever-so-confused smile that managed to creep onto the woman's lush lips.

_Not expecting me to keep up with your game, did you? _He had decided that he liked her after all, even after her little trick, and if she wanted to play tough-to-get then he would just have to do something to outclass her. It was quite beyond physical attraction and into the realm of egoism and other similar emotions. He wasn't even sure if it had started out as physical attraction, or if it had only been a challenge and a reply from the start.

"Why thank you," she finally managed, her voice suspiciously shaky, and Scott thought he could detect a hint of honest appreciation in her tone. "But it really wasn't quite that necessary."

"I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself, m'lady," he grinned, finally back in a role that he could play with a great less doubt. "You have such a pretty face."

Her eyebrow slowly raised in surprise, a mirror image of his own face minutes earlier on the second floor. Then, ever so slightly, her eyes softened, and he knew that she had accepted the game. "Quite right," she replied sweetly, stepping gracefully into the room. "Right, then, shall I expect you to clear all the obstacles for me?"

There was the opening, he thought smugly: 'Impress me or get out'.

He had never been able to resist such an open challenge in his life, and he certainly did not plan on ignoring one now. Giving the woman's back a smooth smile full of teeth, he followed closely behind her. "Ladies first."

* * *

Glancing only briefly to see that her companion was still in his position, Penelope shook her head mentally in surprise at what had happened. Perhaps she _had_ been a bit hasty judging the young man, for he had shown a level of intelligence and wit that she really had not been expecting from a pilot. Behind his proud and arrogant façade lay something a little bit deeper, something that apparently was tired of being chased around by hundreds of idiotic women bent on placing their thank-you directly onto his lips. 

A part of Penelope was very flattered that the man was taking the time out to chase after her at all. She had decided – after much consideration – that he was the type of man to generally flirt but not touch because of the secrecy required from his job. The fact that he had been so indecisive when she had approached, so honestly unsure of what to do, revealed that plainly to her. A flirt was a flirt, but the International Rescue pilot apparently came across as a flirt because of a subtle lack of experience.

They were in the same position, both unable to do anything more than tease the opposite sex, and she honestly wanted nothing more than to have him leave her be. She could take the unwanted advances of scoundrels and cads, but Penelope had no desire to have her heart played with by a man that – in another lifetime, another profession – she might actually have taken a serious look at. Men like him were a sorry reminder of the instability in her life due to her work with Intelligence.

She glanced over again, stealing a look at the man's face. Positioned behind a crumbling pillar in anticipation of the reappearance of the arsonist, the pilot seemed to be in deep thought. He _was_ rather attractive Penelope finally decided in resignation, but some feeling of familiarity still nagged at the back of her mind. And it was not just a memory of his face, but of his entire being that made her wonder where she had met him before. She was sure that she had at some point, obviously far before the conception of International Rescue.

However, having been taken to hundreds of high society balls by her late father, Penelope was not quite sure where she could have seen him. He was American, yes, which perhaps narrowed the field a bit – but not enough. There were enough rich American men in the world to make him the possible son of literally thousands of millionaires.

"Lady." His voice, lacking the brash pride that it had contained earlier, startled her from her thoughts.

"Yes?" She turned and smiled sweetly, hoping that her recent most contemplation would not show on her face.

His brows furrowed for a moment as he studied her face in an intense and practical manner. "Have we met someplace?"

Ah, so there it was, Penelope thought. He had confirmed her thoughts, and she – ever so curious about the matter – was interested to see if they could come to some sort of conclusion together.

"I believe so," she finally replied, also loosing the forced sweet quality of her tone, returning to her normal voice that she used when dealing with those whom she knew well. "A while ago, I might add. I don't clearly remember you."

"But you do." He frowned, and folded his arms across his chest. "I'm sure that we've met somewhere before."

The memories were so strong, Penelope thought in wonderment, trying to place a point in her life that would have instilled such obvious and lasting feelings into her mind. "I agree."

She knew what would likely come next, could see it in the serious and almost fearful expression on his face. If there was any chance that she knew his identity then something had to be done, some sort of silent agreement had to be reached. Trust was most definitely an issue, and even Penelope herself was aware that she was in some danger if the other man knew of _her._

"Then we are both in a bit of a bind, are we not?" She smiled, and the man nodded in response.

"It looks that way." He shrugged and grinned in an apologetic manner. "I'd like to think that I can trust you, but we can't be too sure. Secrecy is very important to our operation."

"And to mine," Penelope agreed, and in her mind she finally decided on a course of action. "My name is Lady Penelope."

The young man's eyes narrowed in confusion, then jumped in surprise as he realised what she was entrusting him with. "But-"

"I believe that I have reason to trust your organization," she explained quietly. "You have never displayed any interest in world politics, and I believe that you have no reason to betray my cover on me if you ever chose to research further into my name. You cannot trust the same of me, but you may accept my promise of secrecy on your behalf." The smile that lit her face was a very honest one. "I _would_ like to know your name."

He thought for a long moment, gazing up and down her body until her finally came to her eyes. She held his gaze for a time, allowing him to peer into her soul. Finally, he nodded and replied, "Scott."

_Scott_. There it was again, a sudden burst of memory upon hearing the name. "Have you by chance ever-"

Her words were cut off mid sentence as a door on the far side of the room slammed open and a man came barrelling out. He was dressed in black and his face was covered by a ski mask, something that Penelope thought would be dreadfully warm to wear in such a place.

It all happened at once, without any thought or delay whatsoever. Scott, from his position three pillars down, jumped out from his cover and took the man down by his knees. The arsonist, busy trying to stuff a thin metal box into his shirt, didn't notice the coming projectile and subsequently went down hard. The two struggled for several seconds until Scott managed to knock the man completely down with a well-placed kick to the face.

As slowly as she could so that the man would not see her, Penelope walked forward, drew her gun from its hiding place, and placed it against the side of his head. "If you so much as try to move," she explained sweetly to the startled arsonist, "I will pull this trigger, and you will never have to worry about where you will find a lawyer that will represent you. Actually," she thought for a moment and came up with a better idea, "what if I did this and saved you the trouble of deciding?" A quick flick of her shoe to the man's temple had him out cold.

Pulling himself to his feet, Scott gave the man a look of pure and complete disgust. "Sadistic bastard."

"Quite right." The two of them, with Scott's strength an added benefit, managed to turn the arsonist over on his back. Penelope quickly produced a pair of handcuffs from one of her pockets and set to making the man as immobile as possible. "Men like him should be behind bars indefinitely." While adjusting the cuffs, she took a moment to find and relieve the man of the metal box. Stowing it carefully in her jacket, she took one last look around and decided, "I believe that should be quite enough. The smoke has cleared enough that we can leave him right where he is. The police will find him."

Scott gave her a quizzical look. "Did you call them?"

"Never," she replied quickly, "so we should be quick and leave before the both of us become more involved in this than we would like to be." When he moved to speak again, she assured him, "If he so much as tries to complain about the kick that _you _gave him, I will make sure that Intelligence deals with it for you."

"Thank you." He also glanced about, then nodded in agreement. No mention of the box left his lips. "Let's get out of here."

* * *

Finally out in the sunlight, Penelope and Scott quickly blended in with the crowd and put as much distance from the building as they could. Mere seconds after they left, a police team arrived, storming into the building in an attempt to find the dangerous arsonist. 

"They will know Intelligence was there, of course," she laughed, thinking of the surprise that the team would have when the found the man already apprehended. "We bother them a fair bit with our antics. We were alerted to the planned theft as soon as it took place. We can't have individuals burning down public buildings in order to steal our secrets, no matter how insignificant those secrets are. And if they think that setting fires will stop our security systems in the first place, then they are sadly mistaken." Then she turned to him, and found herself quite unable to say a proper good-bye. "I suppose that you have business to attend to."

"Yeah," Scott sighed, absently reaching up a hand to flick a switch on his headset. "They're probably having kittens right now." He cringed as a barrage of sound came from the speaker, which Penelope could hear from even a few feet away.

"Scott, are you all right? We've been worried sick! Dad's been fit to be tied; he was about to go in after you himself."

"I'm fine, John. Tell Dad not to worry." He glanced at Penelope apologetically. "John, can you give me a couple of minutes? There's something that I have to do." He waited, then smiled as an audible click came from the headset.

"Brother?" Penelope asked teasingly, drawing a shrug from Scott.

"Maybe." He grinned. "Maybe I just don't want him to listen."

The cad! Penelope thought, though she could not contain a smile of her own. "You military men are all the same." His face was becoming suspiciously close, and she tried desperately to keep from looking too enthusiastic. "Cocky, arrogant."

"Handsome, intelligent," Scott smirked, his lips mere inches from her own. "Irresistible."

Perhaps she would allow him just the one. It was against her better judgement, and she hated to give into something so personal, but it was only the once.

But, much to her own shock and dismay, instead of meeting Scott's lips she instead ran directly into his upraised hand. "The arsonist's been arrested," he whispered quietly, "so I think it's time to put a few thousand miles between you and me."

She knew what came next.

"You almost had me there." With one final smile and a smug wink, he turned and walked away from her into the crowd. "See you around."

Penelope stood for a very long time before she finally decided in her mind what had happened. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had truly wanted to – or had he? It became very clear to Penelope that her own game had been played right back at her.

_You wanted to!_ She felt like shouting at his back, for she was absolutely certain that he would have kissed her had he not wanted to prove a point even more. Yet, in some manner, she felt that she would have been disappointed in him _had_ he given in. The brush off, the invitation to play another day, was as much a part of his character as his confident and dazzling grin.

More than anything though, she could not expect dedication from a man who quite obviously was not in a position to begin any serious relationship. He had his job and stuck to it, which she admired perhaps more than any other aspect of his personality. What had happened between them had been simply wishful thinking at best, a personal and inside joke between two individuals trapped in the same jail but kept in different cells.

"The dangers of becoming involved." She sighed, gently tapped the microphone receiver in her cowl. "Parker?"

"Yes, m'lady," came the immediate reply.

"Bring around FAB One. It's time to go home."

"Yes m'lady." There was a pause. "I assume everything went well?"

"Most certainly, Parker." She hoped that her voice reflected her words. "Everything went wonderfully."

"Are you all right?"

"Of course."

And Penelope had no intention of leaving things where they stood. She had a hunch that she planned to follow up. There had not been time to question Scott in the building, but in time she hoped to prove her thoughts either right or wrong. Maybe then, when things were sorted out, she'd have time to find and deal with the cocky pilot that had unintentionally stolen her heart.

* * *

**A/N:** Before I do anything else, I need to correct I boo-boo from last chapter: I need to thank Ariel D for beta reading! She not only read Spirits of the Night once, but she read it twice and offered the best advice that anyone could have offered for it. Thank-you:D Now, what will happen with Penelope and Scott? We'll just have to wait and see . . . Here's hoping that my characterizations came off like they were supposed to. lol 

Thank you to everyone who reviewed! Onto reviewer responses:

**Ariel D -** Oh, that perfectionism. (starts laughing) Poor John, poor poor John. Actually, poor Zeil too. ;) What if she doesn't give you another flaunt point?  
**Moonlightbear -** Hey, it's not a big deal about reviewing. ;) I think I was just suffering from paranoia left over from exams. And I tried to send you an e-mail to your other address but both of them seem to be out of commission blocked your other one) so I'll tell you here. I'd be delighted if you wanted to use my story as a basis for yours. Credit at the top of the story is more than enough. Also, if you'd like me to read it over for you when it's done, definitely send it over my way. :)  
**Jnr Cpl Scarlet - **LOL Everytime I go to do a review I have to look your name up again. ;) How do I get them long? (sighs) The plot bunnies won't stop nibbling at my brain until I put everything in that needs to be there. Lol Oh, and I hope your English exam went well for you!  
**Ms. Imagine -** Thank-you so much:D You know, I never actually planned on any of this to happen. It just started writing this section and it happened! Lol It seemed to be a logical step in his development, though I will admit that silly chapter was edited (including beta reading) probably about eight times before I posted it.  
**Assena -** (grins sheepishly) The next chapter was Scott. ;) **Okay! Listen up, all! lol Here's a general idea for who's in what chapter for the rest of the story (starting with what will be chapter 23):** John, Scott-Penny, John-Virgil, Kyrano-Trangh, Alan-Tintin (though this chapter has a lot of Virgil and Gordon too), Gordon/John, aaaand . . . Gordon (with everyone else too), Gordon, Gordon, Gordon, Gordon/Jeff, Jeff (epilogue). ;) Hope that helps everyone.  
**Andrewjameswililams -** Don't worry about it. :) I should have worried, considering that people are busy at this time of the year. (grins) I give John about half-an-hour before everything is ready for habitation. ;)  
**Zeilfanaat - **(starts laughing) It's okay, I don't mind if you use the same word over again. I'm still flattered. ;) . . . I guess I don't really want to change much in Winds, because what I'd have to do is write more chapters and at this point it seems complete as it is. I do have some editing to do, though, because I completely forgot to write Parker into chapter 24! (falls over) Bad me, bad me.  
**Barb from Utah -** It's all right, I was being paranoid about reviews for some reason. ;) I'm glad to hear that you liked both chapters, though. They were hard to write, but I think they came out well.

* * *

Catch the next chapter, "The Voice of IR", where a rescue places John in the most awkward and frightening position that he can imagine. Until then, FAB all! 


	23. The Voice of IR

_Dislcaimer: Thunderbirds is the property of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, as well as Carlton and Universal. No profit is intended to be made from this story; it is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended, and none should be inferred. All original characters are the property of the author. This story should not be used or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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_

**The Voice of IR  
****April 2018**

Often times, during the quietest and calmest parts of the night, John Tracy found himself wide-awake and unable to sleep. It was inevitable, of course, given how much he had to do during the day. His daytime hours were generally filled with mindless tasks that, although enjoyable, did not give him the opportunity to exercise his imagination.

And, like anything else, that part of his body needed to be used. The hours when he was supposed to sleep, the time of the day when he was normally undisturbed was perfect for that. As much as he _tried_ to fall asleep, the alluring promise of letting his mind wander often won the battle. In many ways, he had discovered, the semi-coherent state that he fell into was just as relaxing and resting than any form of sleep he could find up on the space station.

So it was that he lay uncovered on his bed, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling while his mind wandered about the remote and dusty corners of the universe. It had been a while since he had actually set himself down with the intention of sleeping, and the procession of dancing imaginary stars across the ceiling was a sign that his mind was beginning to shut off for the night. His imagination tended to run away when his body grew tired.

That was, perhaps, just as well. It had been a long day, and sometimes sleep _was _preferable to the alternative. John knew that he suffered from some acute form of insomnia, but he also knew that rest would come if he simply let his mind run its course.

Out of nowhere, a loud siren intruded on his thoughts, sending the sprawling planetary nebula scattering and driving him upright on the bed. Grabbing his face in surprise, John took a long breath to stop his body from shaking. A quick glance at the clock showed him that it was not even dawn at the island, meaning that the rest of his family would still be asleep.

Dragging himself out of bed, John wearily padded out of the room in the general direction of the command centre. He had no intention of waking up his father until absolutely necessary, but it bothered him to see that he had spend almost the entire night staring up at the ceiling. He knew that his mind liked to be active at night, but it had never been quite _that_ bad.

Maybe the rescue call wasn't such a bad thing, then.

Startled by his thoughts, John shook his head and gave himself a very hard mental slap. Rescue calls were _never_ a good thing. Either he was tired and wasn't thinking straight, or he was beginning to feel too far removed from the actual horror of the accidents to react to them fully. It was the latter option that truly scared him, for he had never ever thought of himself as being the type of person that could laugh off personal trauma.

Determined to prove himself wrong on that account, John quickly sat down in the command chair and booted up the monitor screens. A few seconds passed before the screens charged, during which John had time to grab a cup of coffee from under the computer console.

He always kept something handy in case he needed to work through the night, and after almost a month of cold coffee he was gradually growing accustomed to it. There was the microwave, of course, which had been ferried up to the station the past week, but it was stowed away somewhere in the kitchen and was far enough removed that John didn't feel he had time to seek it out.

The computer chimed as the screens came online, flooding the dimly lit station with a glaring white glow. Taking a final sip from his cup, John set the coffee down on the counter and began his work.

A quick check with the computer showed that a distress call had - and still was, he noted - been recorded in the vicinity of the Swiss Alps. The signal was faint but constant, and a little bit more digging on John's part revealed a string of transmissions in the area that were both frantic and angry.

Even with only a month of work under his belt, John was experienced enough to locate the source of the trouble in less time than it had taken for the computers to load. He frowned as he scanned the data that the computer was sending him, his face furrowing even deeper as the severity of the situation finally settled in.

The men over the radio, who seemed to be part of an Alpine rescue team, had a right to be angry. An entire section of snow on one of the skiing peaks had broken away, causing an avalanche, and it looked as though the entire situation could have been avoided had the morning avalanche preventive measures been carried out properly. But someone had goofed up, and the slope had been opened for business even though the chances of an avalanche had been severe.

From the rescue reports he heard that at least twenty people were missing on the slopes, and that the avalanche had also covered over a train from the mountain monorail, burying it and the passengers under dozens of feet of snow. The train hadn't skidded the tracks, but the same device that had kept it from jumping and crashing had held it in place to be covered by the drifts.

The air supply in the monorail wouldn't hold for long, but it was the people on the slopes that were the priority. Their air supply was even less, to the extreme of being a few minutes at most in length, and the direct pressure of the snow on their bodies would be enough to cause extreme hypothermia after only a few minutes being buried by the avalanche.

John knew from close experience - having skied several times in his life - that being buried under the white powder was closely akin to being thrown into hell. He had almost been buried himself, many years ago when his mother had still been alive, and he had never forgotten the terror of the experience. Only he had been lucky enough to be pulled out quickly, by his mother, before hypothermia had set in.

And then there was the monorail itself, a craft that may as well have been taken from a horror movie for all the feelings that it stirred inside of him. Memories tried to crawl back into his conscious mind, but he physically shook his head and willed them back into the corner where he kept them buried.

"Okay," John muttered, his mind launching into the calm and professional program that always ran when he was on duty, "let's get things started." Keying up the remote access screen, John quickly established a link with the island. The situation required more than his hand, and his family would need time to prepare the equipment.

A few minutes passed in silence. Finally, the screen blinked once and the unshaven face of his brother Scott appeared on the monitor.

"Rescue?" The other man's voice was tired sounding, and his eyes suggested that he was only half awake.

"Rescue," John confirmed, "Switzerland. Tell Dad he'll need Pod Five with the snow equipment. Oh, and bring Thunderizer."

"Lasers?"

"For the snow. You can lower the intensity of the beam. It'll help you to dig out the people."

"From what?"

John almost laughed at how asleep his brother still was. Of course, he hadn't actually stated what type of rescue it was, but generally Scott was keen enough to catch on with little trouble. "Avalanche, Swiss Alps."

The repetition of the location suddenly sank in with the older Tracy. Scott seemed to shake off all signs of weariness almost immediately, and his eyes became alert and focused. There was no disguising the sudden and burning fire in his eyes. "I'll go wake up Dad. Give me ten minutes and I'll be on my way."

John nodded in response, already running a remote pre-flight diagnostic of Thunderbird One in order to speed up the process. "Right. I'll have the ship ready for you when you get there. Try and hurry, Scott. These people need help."

His brother nodded and disappeared from the screen.

Sighing, John finished up the check-list and turned back to the disaster read-outs. The rescue crews onsite were making little progress, for the snow was thick and the avalanche covered many of the access roads around and up to the accident area. Twenty people had already been uncovered from the slopes, but those who were still missing appeared to be unlocated.

"Almost an hour to Switzerland," John muttered, frustration rising in him as he considered how long it would take Scott to arrive on the scene. Even though he had intercepted the accident report almost immediately after the avalanche had occurred, it still did not seem to be quick enough.

But there was that first transmission, the one from the low powered receiver . . . the one that had completely escaped John's mind. Without even thinking, he brought up the frequency onto the screen and quickly set the Thunderbird Five transmitters to a different global position. With the new modifications to the station that had been installed when he had taken over, John could _afford _to spend half of his transmitting power to try and hunt down the person in distress.

Once the station was set, John adjusted his headset and settled into his chair. His hand reached out to flip the switch, then stopped above the console as he suddenly changed his mind. If he activated the transmitter, then -

He would have to talk to the person on the other end.

John was completely unable to choose a course of action. On one hand, he knew that he had known when he had taken the job that he would have to eventually make contact with someone who was in trouble. He had accepted that at the time, and simply shrugged it off in the unconscious hope that the problem would go away.

On the other hand . . . a part of him shouted, quite emphatically, that there was no way in hell that he would talk to anyone over the radio. He wasn't a person who liked to socialise to begin with, and the thought of talking to a completely unknown person almost made his skin crawl.

But the person was in trouble. Whoever it was on the other end of the line needed help, and if there was any remote possibility that he could give them any form of assistance, then he had no choice.

He didn't want to, he really didn't want to do it at all, but he had to do it. John could think of few things that he had ever done that were harder than reaching over and activating the transmitter and receiver set. Audio blared over the speakers as soon as his fingers made contact with the console. There was not just one voice, a fact that surprised him, but several other ones in the background that meshed together into a chaotic warble that almost hurt his ears.

And then it dawned upon him where the person was transmitting from.

"Can anyone hear me? Hello? Shit, I still can't get through. Oh God, we must be buried thick. Maybe the cell tower's down as well."

The voice spoke in vaguely accented English, a small comfort in what was turning into a frightening situation.

He had no idea what to say. What was he supposed to do? There was no need to ask the man for information given where he was transmitting from. Maybe there were wounded on board, but even that would have to wait. There was nothing that he could do . . . and nothing that he could ask would help. It would only make him more concerned if he knew that they were in serious trouble. They would have to wait until real help arrived . . .

"Sir, can you hear me?"

He had no idea why he said the words. His entire being wanted to crawl away under a bed, wanted to leave the accident to his brothers, wanted to get away from the slowly re-occurring memories that were being released in his mind.

But he _did_ know, perhaps, why he had spoken. He knew why he had to speak to the man: only he, in the entire world, had the transmitting power to reach to the man. And if he were in the same position, he knew what he would want to hear - a voice, any voice, coming from the phone. A reassuring voice, a calm voice that could be depended upon to fix the situation.

And so, he repeated the words, a little louder and surer, so that the man could hear him. "Sir? Sir? Are you there?"

It was amazing, how silent the line from the phone had suddenly become. Then, quietly, a voice replied, "Is someone there?"

"Yes."

There was a garble of sound as the man relayed the message to the other people in the train, his voice incredulous. "Dear God, I can't believe it. Where are you? Can you find us?"

For the first time since he had joined the organization, John Tracy opened his mouth and said the words that the rest of his family had said so many times before: "I'm with International Rescue. Our crew will be with you as soon as they can. Please try to stay calm."

There was a power in those words that scared John to the core, for they seemed to carry the ability to instil in any man or woman the feeling of hope. The influence was not only over others, however, but over his own mind as well. John hardly recognized the voice that came from his lips, for it sounded so comfortable and in control of the situation that it couldn't be his own.

"Jesus, you don't know how glad I am to hear that! Are they coming soon?"

"We'll have you out of there as quickly as possible," John replied, trying to dance around any specific numbers. "How many of you are there?"

"Thirty seven," the man replied after a few moments delay. "We were travelling back to the station, and the train seemed to –"

_Jump the tracks._ Shaking his head, John didn't even have to hear the man say the words to know what he meant. It was all horribly familiar to him, and the words formed as a deep pit of sickness in his stomach.

"Is anyone hurt?"

"I don't know." The reply was strained. "People are bleeding, I think some guy has a broken leg. Shit, I don't know. Maybe they're fine. Maybe they're dying. I'm not a doctor. The train's still on the ground, though. Lord knows how it stayed on the rails. But the snow went right over top of us!"

"Try and keep calm." To the cynical part of his mind, those words were like poison. "Listen, is anyone bleeding heavily? Are any of the injuries life-threatening?"

"I don't think so."

"All right. If anyone shows signs of going into shock or passing out, tell me immediately."

"Are you gonna stay on the line?"

"Of course." A grimace slowly etched itself across John's face. He had no idea what he was doing, he had no idea how he was supposed to handle the situation – and yet he had no intention of leaving the people on the train alone to face their horrors.

"It's cold like hell."

He was scared, he realised. He was scared of what he would hear. He was scared of the memories that were forcing their way to the very surface of his mind, memories that he had fought to subdue since he had first arrived on Thunderbird Five. But he couldn't be scared. That was a luxury reserved for those who were truly in danger.

It was that determination, that part of him that wanted to do for others what no one was able to do for his parents so many years ago, that washed any doubt away from his mind and replaced it with a startling degree of clarity.

"Try and keep together as a group, sir. It'll help conserve the heat." He had a job to do; it was that simple. He couldn't be John Tracy, the kid who sat and ate lunch alone in the laboratory of the school, any longer.

He was the voice of International Rescue.

"Listen, sir, keep talking to me. If you can, try and involve everyone else. Help will come eventually, you just have to sit tight."

"Easy for you to say," the man scoffed, "where the hell are you anyway?"

"I can't tell you." John bit his lip, trying desperately to think of a way to answer the question that wouldn't compromise his security.

"You a pilot?"

"No. I'm –" he stopped suddenly, a thought dawning on him. "I'm the communications expert."

"Call boy?"

"I guess." John slapped himself mentally as his official façade slipped a little. "It's my job to search out rescue calls and locate the people in trouble."

"Jesus, you're a regular guardian angel, aren't you?"

The words rang rather uncomfortably against John's ears. He hated any types of religious comparisons, especially when they were made towards him, for he felt that very few people deserved that degree of praise. "Not really, sir. I'm just doing my job."

"Hold a sec," the man interrupted suddenly, "there's some kid here that wants to talk to you."

The frequency crackled as the phone was passed around. Finally, a young voice asked, "Mister, are you really a Thunderbird?"

Nothing could have prepared John for the question. He simply sat back in his chair as an incredulous – and vaguely moved – grin spread on his face, wondering how the reputation of their organisation had spread in such a short period of time. "You could say that. I work for International Rescue."

"But you fly Thunderbirds!"

"I don't fly . . ." John trailed off as he realised that he had nearly let go something very secret. "I don't fly a ship. But I do work for them."

"My sister and I always play Thunderbirds!" The boy's voice was so excited that the phone's receiver crackled a bit under the strain. "I always take Thunderbird One. It's the best ship. Is he coming soon?"

"Soon," John managed, still flabbergasted in spite of himself at the child's enthusiasm. It was to be expected, he supposed, but he had never dreamed how International Rescue would be received in the arms of the general public. He really wasn't comfortable with a young child treating him like a celebrity.

"Really? Can I meet him when he comes?"

"Maybe. We'll see what happens."

"He's real cool! I've read every story about him. Does he really talk like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like, 'We request that no pictures and photographs be taken'. Like that!"

John had to try very hard to hold back a snort. "I suppose he does. It's his job, though, and we try to be serious when it comes to that."

"So sometimes you're not serious?"

A chuckle finally escaped John's mouth, a quiet one that still had enough volume to carry across the communications network. "Yes. We're normal people just like you."

"Really? What's your name?"

That comment _really_ hurt, because two very conflicting answers existed for it. John knew that he likely could give the child his name, being as common as it was, with little chance of consequence. But he didn't want to make a habit of becoming so _. . . close_ to the people that he was dealing with. If he couldn't remain professional the first time, he would never be able to after that.

"I'm sorry, I can't tell you that."

Undaunted, the child replied, "Can I call you Bill? My uncle's name is Bill."

"Sure." The grin on John's face morphed unintentionally into a sad smile. "If you want."

"Mister Bill, if you don't fly rocket ships, what do you do?"

John decided that in the unlikely instance he ever had children himself, he would at least raise them to know when a question had already been asked. "I think I've already answered that."

"Yeah, but what do you _do?_"

Rolling his eyes, John took a quick glance at the screen and, seeing that Scott was prepping Thunderbird One for launch, replied, "I organise everything." It was a little bit of a white lie, but it was close enough to the truth for John's purposes that he didn't feel too badly about telling it. "And right now I've got to leave you for a minute so that I can help the other members get over to you. Is that okay?"

There was a pause. "Sure. I guess so."

"I'll be back soon," John assured the boy quietly, "and then we can talk some more. Until then, try and be happy, okay?"

"Okay Bill."

That was that. Switching lines to the IR frequency, John asked, "Scott, are you there?"

After a brief pause, the strong voice of his brother replied, "Thunderbird One here. I'm ready for take-off."

"Okay. Get going, Scott. Those guys are going to be running out of air."

"Right, John. I'll radio again when I'm near the site."

Nodding, John checked the screen again and saw that Thunderbird Two was finally being powered up. "Great. Scott, Dad's right behind you. If you need anything else just give me a call. Else, I'll talk again when you hit the hot spot. Thunderbird Five out."

One hour, John thought; he had one hour to wait until Scott was in Switzerland - one hour in which to talk to the people on the train in the hopes of keeping their spirits up. He prayed silently that the air supply would hold on the train. It probably would, given the size of the cars compared to the number of passengers on board, but there was also the possibility that by making them talk . . .

John shook the thought completely from his mind, focusing instead on the task at hand. There was no use on dwelling on what could be – or what _had_ been, for that matter. The only thing that mattered was the present.

And this time, he thought with a touch of sad satisfaction, there was no danger of the train itself sliding so far off the tracks that it would fall over a small cliff. Apparently the new protocols for construction that had been introduced seven years ago worked well.

The frequency once again changed with the flip of a switch. "Kid, you there?"

"Bill?"

"Sure thing. Listen, why don't we have another chat. Sound all right?"

"Yeah."

"Why don't you turn up the volume on that phone so everyone can hear."

"Okay. I think they already can, though." The sound of the boy fumbling with the phone transferred easily over the radio. "Can we talk about your friends?"

"If you want," John laughed. He had one hour to talk, and it didn't really matter to him what they talked about. "Just remember that I can't answer anything that's too specific."

* * *

By the time that Thunderbird Two approached the disaster area, most of the clean-up on the ski slopes had already been taken care of by the local aid workers. From the air, Jeff Tracy could see people bustling about on the slopes, clearing up the area, and placing injured skiers onto stretchers so that they could be taken to a hospital for treatment. 

The immediate concern now lay in the shuttle train, which was buried somewhere near the slopes under countless feet of snow.

As Two quickly approached the landing area, Jeff brought the craft down in a gentle arc and deployed the landing pylons. The ship shuddered as its retro thrusters kicked in, and he was thrown back in his seat as the craft finally touched down into the white powder of the mountainous region.

"Piece of cake," grinned Virgil Tracy, already unstrapping himself from the co-pilot's seat so that he could hurry to the back and ready the equipment. Halfway to the back of the cabin, he turned and continued, "It's too bad Scott couldn't have seen it. He's always talking about how easy it is to land Thunderbird One."

Jeff returned his son's smile and replied, "He's still busy closing down the main disaster area, Virgil. He said that he'd be busy with that for a while, so we're probably on our own with this one."

It didn't take long for Jeff and Virgil to collect the supplies needed to free the train. Stashing those in a pair of backpacks, the two men took seat in the cockpit of - and fired up - the full size laser cutter that they had brought with them in Thunderbird Two's bay. Virgil, with the practised ease of someone who regularly worked with heavy machinery, brought the device around in the bay and out the open door of the craft.

He'll be doing this on his own, someday, Jeff thought absently as he watched his son drive the vehicle over a set of snowdrifts. It was hard to think of a time when he wouldn't be involved in the organisation, but Jeff knew deep down that he would eventually be giving up the ships to his sons. There was still a job for him as commander, of course, but when age finally caught up with him . . .

"There." Virgil's words interrupted Jeff from his thoughts. "Over where the aid workers are. They're flagging us down." The chestnut-haired man glanced down at a sensor display, then nodded in confirmation of his own guess. "I'm getting a reading showing a metallic structure buried at least ten feet under the surface." His voice became suddenly hoarse. "Monorail. Still on the tracks, but it's buried real deep."

There was no time to give into the feeling of nausea that was rising in his chest. Shoving the feeling deep inside of his heart, Jeff looked to his son and nodded. "Then let's get to it." Not waiting for the vehicle to slow, Jeff jumped off the side, found his footing, and quickly made his way to the group of men and women that were digging at the train with shovels. A wave of his hand had their attention, and one woman stepped forward to greet him.

"International Rescue?" The woman spoke with a thick Swiss accent that was easily understandable. "It is good to see you. Your other man has already helped us on the ski slopes."

Smiling, Jeff pointed at the train and replied, "We should be able to help you here as well. If you can remove your personnel from the area, we can use our laser cutter to melt the snow and cut a hole in the train."

Her eyes widened and the woman quickly turned to her co-workers and yelled something in her own language. Within minutes the rest of the aid workers were gathered behind the laser cutter, watching in curiosity as Virgil adjusted the controls and took aim at the snow bank.

"Got it," he finally grunted, looking to his father for the command to shoot.

"Fire."

Pressing a button, Virgil activated the main power battery of the vehicle. The large laser nozzle on the end of the vehicle began to glow, and within moments it shot out a diffused beam directly at the snow. The snow bank jumped with the force of the energy, and clouds of steam rose in the air as ice crystals sublimated directly into water vapour. The young man's face narrowed in concentration as the side of the train gradually became revealed, and he adjusted the settings ever so slightly so as to cause the beam to focus into a single powerful ray that was barely the width of a human finger.

"If I turn this off, can you go and tell the people in the train to move over?"

Before Jeff could respond, his radio communicator crackled and another voice emanated from it.

"It's all right, Dad, I've got it handled."

Sure enough, the men and women in the train gradually moved over to one side, leaving Virgil plenty of room to lance through the structure with the beam.

"John?" Jeff looked over to Virgil, and by the young man's confused expression, he was likely thinking the same thing.

"Sure thing." The astronomer laughed over the comm system. "Anything else needing to be done?"

Shaking his head in surprise and relief, Jeff joined in the chuckle and responded, "Not right now, John. How long have you been in contact with them?"

"Most of the time you were flying."

That was a startling revelation to Jeff, who had come under the assumption that John had no desire and no plans to ever deal with the people that they rescued directly. Though John had often brought up the idea while speaking to his father, he had shown very little interest in actually bringing it into effect. But something had obviously changed, for John was not only in contact with the people, but he seemed to have earned a certain amount of respect from them that allowed him to order them around.

"Surprises, surprises," Jeff mused quietly to himself. Louder, so that Virgil could hear, he stated, "All right, John. Thanks for the help. Virgil!"

The young man grinned.

"Get to it."

"Right." Still smiling, the engineer brought the laser back to full power. The beam lanced forward towards the train and in an instant it connected with the siding, vaporising the metal and cutting a hole directly through the structure to the snow on the other side.

"We are going to have to fix that," Jeff muttered out loud, thinking that the cannon would likely be more useful if it could be programmed to simply cut through a single layer of metal. "I'll have to talk to Brains about it when we get back."

Several minutes later, the last of the siding was blasted away and the metal cut-out fell outward onto the snow. Aid workers rushed forward to help the freed people from the train, making sure that they did not trip on the burned metal or slip on the icy pathway created by the sublimated and subsequently refrozen water.

As Virgil shut down the laser cutter, Jeff made his way up to the train. Several thankful men and women patted him on the back as he went, their silent way of thanking him for his efforts. Finally, he caught up with the Swiss woman who was in charge. She was busy helping a young girl from the train, taking special care to not to disturb what appeared to be a twisted ankle. A young boy, no more than eight years old, followed closely behind her, his eyes staring wide-eyed at Thunderbird Two, which was close enough to garner attention.

"This is the last of them," the woman told Jeff calmly. "If you could watch this boy, then we could get them to the hospital for hypothermia treatment."

Jeff nodded, then kneeled down and rested his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Son, you'll have to follow me."

The boy's eyes grew even wider as Jeff spoke to him. "Mister, are you really a Thunderbird?"

A smile forced its way onto Jeff's lips. The boy reminded him so much of his own children that he couldn't help being touched by the child's innocence. "Yes I am. We're here to help."

_And you're all safe this time. There are no casualties. This is why International Rescue was created. It's what it was meant to do. No one will die on a monorail anymore. Not if we can help it._

Jeff absently touched at his eyes, trying not to give any indication of the emotions that were banging at his internal barriers.

"Oh, I know." The boy laughed and pointed towards the ship. "I got to talk to Bill over that guy's - " he pointed at a man walking further up the path, "phone. It was real fun!"

"Bill?" Jeff shook his head, puzzled. "What did he . . ."

"He's the communi . . . " the boy stopped, obviously stuck on the word. "Comm . . . comm . . ."

"Communications expert?"

"Yeah! He said I could call him Bill, because he couldn't tell me his name, and my uncle's name is Bill."

The truth of the matter finally dawned upon Jeff, and it became impossible to restrain the laugh that was trying to escape his mouth. "So he talked to you?"

"Uh huh! He talked to everyone. I liked it."

And so, as he lead the boy down the bank towards the shelter, Jeff Tracy found himself puzzling over in his mind the mystery that was his second eldest son. What John had done for the people in the train had been beyond the call of duty - at least for him - and the benefits of his efforts were obvious. Jeff had expected to arrive at the scene to see countless worried and shock-stricken faces. Instead, he was confronted with adults and children alike who wore the faintest traces of smiles on their lips. Even those who had fallen into hysteria and were being taken away on stretchers seemed to be calmer than they should have been.

From the boy's animated chatter, it was plain to see that John had not simply distracted them. He had struck a chord, had managed to bond with the men and women in a way that went beyond common sense. For John - the young man who had said literally nothing, save required conversation, to anyone outside of his family for many years - to manage to befriend complete strangers in less than an hour . . .

Then it clicked in Jeff's brain, as suddenly as his own memories had resurfaced when he had first arrived at the accident site. "Son, when Bill," he nearly chuckled at the name, "talked to you, did he say anything . . . special?"

"Kind of." The boy nodded, suddenly serious in the way that children could become serious when they have to be. "He said something similar happened to him when he was my age - "

That was a bit of a stretch, Jeff thought, but nothing truly important when it came down to it. John hadn't been on the train himself . . .

" - and he didn't want us to be scared. He was real fun to talk to."

As the words settled into Jeff's brain, he came to understand how truly miraculous the rescue had actually been. And it was not a miracle for the people in the train, though it surely seemed that way to them. No, it was a miracle for the young man who spent his life up in space, staring at the stars, lost in his own thoughts. The similarity of the rescue, the pain of the memories that had likely surfaced, had cut through a layer of protective ice around the young man, revealing something that had lay hidden for so long.

The part of his son that had been buried under the burning steel of a monorail had finally awakened. The John Tracy known to his family - a quiet yet determined boy who had been a leader for his siblings for so many years - had finally poked his head out into the real world.

"So can I see the rocket ship? Bill said I could."

Fighting back a feeling of incredulity about the day in general, Jeff chuckled and replied, "Maybe. We'll see. Bill said that?"

"Well . . ." The boy looked towards the ground. "He said maybe I could. So could I?"

Taking a look around at the accident scene, Jeff decided that it couldn't hurt to walk the boy up a bit closer. Even if he saw too much, children's memories – especially those of excited children – could not always be trusted, and he likely wouldn't be able to give anyone reliable information about the ships. "I'll see what I can do."

* * *

Several hours after the final clean-ups had been completed, the rescue craft took to the air and began the long and tedious journey back to Tracy Island. The European airways were filled with helicopters and media craft, and it took all of John's attention to keep the ships directed on a course away from the action. The spy satellites monitoring the area also had to be baffled, which grabbed at the remaining portion of the space monitor's mind. 

By the time that Thunderbirds One and Two were sailing gracefully over the Pacific Ocean, John had had more than enough of his duties for the day. No matter how hard he tried to fix them and reduce the glare, the computers screens still wore on his eyes, and the constant tension that he was in while monitoring the radar read-outs didn't help one bit.

"All clear to home," Virgil sighed happily over the comm channel, obviously as relieved as John that the day was nearly over. "I thought we'd never get out of there."

The radio crackled, and Scott's voice quickly jumped in. "I could have been home and back already, but at the speed that your hulking monstrosity moves . . ."

"You say things like that about this ship, and I'll make sure that you're the one driving it next, Scott Tracy. We could switch craft when Virgil goes back to school."

"Dad, please. He'd destroy the engines trying to make it go as fast as One."

"Point taken, Virgil. Scott?"

"Yeah?"

"Sit back and be quiet. It's been a long day for all of us."

_Isn't that the truth?_ "You could always send him up here with me," John put in, unable to resist. "Out here in the cold, dark reaches of the universe."

"I'd go mad," the older boy replied seriously. "Nowhere to go, nothing to do."

John smiled, having anticipated his brother's response long before he had said it. "You might like it."

"Nah. The sky is the limit, John, and you're _way_ past the sky."

"Scott, let's leave your brother be. I think it'd be good to let him take a break. He's been on call longer than the rest of us."

Appreciating the gesture, John still felt the need to make sure that his family made it home. "Dad, are you sure? Thunderbird Five's artificial intelligence is nowhere near to being perfect. You could run into a missile before you even see it coming."

"No." The older man's voice was firm. "No John, you sound exhausted. Don't pretend otherwise. I want you to close up shop and go to bed."

"Dad-"

"I could make that an order." There was more intent in the statement than humour. "Do I make myself clear?"

Giving in, and knowing that even if he tried to argue with his father he would likely lose, John sighed and nodded absently to his empty surroundings. "I copy that. Do you need anything before I go?"

For a moment there was only the silent hiss of the radio channel. Then, the older man stated, in a great deal less formal tone, "Only to thank you. You did good today, John. What you did for those people was above and beyond the call of duty. I'm proud of you. We had a very stressful situation on our hands, and you dealt with it with an incredibly cool head."

John didn't have to look in a mirror to know that a furious blush was spreading across his face. The blush still embarrassed him even though his family couldn't see it, and that thought only made the red colour deepen. He knew perfectly well what he had done that day. It was wonderful to hear his father say the words, and yet John felt that they were not needed. He felt that, against a level of adversity that he had only challenged once in his life, he had managed to simply do the duty that was expected of him.

"It was nothing," he finally answered back, his voice barely audible. "It had to be done."

That was the exact truth. It had to be done. There had been no room for feelings of discomfort, nor time for him to hide and cower in fear. He had been forced to weigh two things, and had found the one distinctly more important than the other.

And so his fear, a child's fear, had been pushed to the side. It was simply ironic that a monorail, of all things, had given back to him what had been taken away, by a monorail, so many years ago.

"Can I count on you to do that next time?"

That was the question, really. This had been a special situation, caused by built up emotions and memories connected the area of the rescue. Could he really do it again in a situation where there was no emotional tie to the victims?

But then, did it really matter where it happened? What mattered was not where it happened – where his mother had been killed – but that it had happened in the first place. And so he was back to the conclusion that he had reached when he had first decided to step foot onto the station.

International Rescue needed him. They needed him to be the best operator that he could be, and if that meant speaking to the victims . . .

Once he considered it, John knew the answer and spoke it before it ever truly crossed his mind. "Of course."

Scott's irritated snort immediately shook John from his introspection. "Oh good, does that mean more kids coming to look at the ships?"

"Scott," put in Virgil immediately, "give it up. I think you would've done the exact same thing at that age. Now quit being such a grump today. You're tired of flying, and we're tired of listening to you complaining about being tired of flying. Now say sorry to John or I'm going to have to kick your ass when we get home."

"Virgil! Scott! I have the power to ground both of you if you so choose!"

"Oh fine, Dad. I'm sorry, John. I didn't mean it that way. I'm just concerned about the secrecy-"

"Of the organization," John finished politely, a smile returning to his lips. "I know. We've banged that into your head too many times. Dad, maybe you should take Scott's job for a bit just so he can take a break and relax."

The older man chuckled. "That's a good idea. Now, why don't you turn off that computer and go get some rest? We're all a little uptight I think. I'll probably turn in myself when we get back."

There was no escaping it.

Deciding that his father was probably right, John returned the laugh and stood up from his chair. "All right. I'm going." He stretched his arms out, sighing as the kinks came out of his back, then reached back to the computer. "See you later, guys."

The three men responded with varying versions of well wishes. Once they were finished, John flipped off the transmitter and set the computer to standby. The lights dimmed and the whirring noise of the computer dropped to a low hum as the circuits went into power-save mode.

"What a day." Suddenly very exhausted, John let himself fall back onto his chair, savouring the comfortable feel of the material with the hope that he might be able to fall asleep there and not have to walk to his room.

So many things had happened that day, he thought, so many things that had been completely beyond his control. He had done the unthinkable – he had pushed aside a fear that he had had since he had been twelve years old and had blindly and unselfishly lead a group of people to the hope that they had needed to survive. Old memories, memories that he had been trying to banish but refused to leave completely, had pointed him in a direction that he had nearly missed –

A direction towards the path of healing.

But now that he'd experienced it, there was no turning back now. For as much as he felt guilty admitting it, it had felt oddly . . . fulfilling to throw aside his doubts and do what he knew had to be done. It was another of those addicting sensations that would likely snag him and try to keep hold of him forever.

But was this one really so bad? The last time he had had the problem it had only sent him on a path that had spiralled downward. This task, though, this . . . feeling that had captured him . . . it was born not of feelings for himself, but of feelings for others.

There could be worse things to devote your life to, John decided. And yet it was not that thought which completely solidified the decision in his mind.

It was the knowledge that, if he could somehow hang onto the person that he had been _before _he'd allowed himself to lose control, if he could find something that would allow him to return to a time before all the trouble had begun . . . then perhaps things would finally be all right.

"It's been a while since I've played with a CB set." The stars twinkled brightly out the window as he spoke, their soft light playing across the thick transparent material of the hull.

_I guess it's not that different. I was never very good at it. Dad always said my voice was too quiet, that I was too shy to be a proper broadcaster. So I took to building the kits instead. But if I can keep up one of my old hobbies, why not the other? If I can learn to fly and go into space when everyone told me it wouldn't happen, then I should be able to do this. Maybe I won't be the best operator in the world. But I'll try, because someone has to. Maybe I can make things just a tiny bit easier for the people in trouble. It wouldn't be much, but maybe it'll be enough._

As his thoughts came together, John Tracy found himself satisfied with the decision that he had reached. _I don't want to be anywhere else_, he thought with a vague sense of pride._ This is where I belong. I don't want to be doing anything else either._

"They're stuck with me now," John grinned in amusement, finally finding the resolve to drag himself from the chair back onto his feet. As he made his way down the hall to his room, he couldn't glancing back at the picture of his mother which sat on his desk. "Good-night Mom."

And for once he didn't feel a twinge of pain when the call went unanswered, as he had every day since he had decided that his dependency had to end. Instead, John felt as though a great burden had finally been lifted from his shoulders, a burden that had been dragging him down as long as he could remember.

For Lucy Tracy was at rest in spirit, and he was finally at rest in heart.

* * *

**A/N:** I need to take a moment to address a serious issue that has come up since my last posting. Fanfiction, though the copyright is owned by the respective companies, is still protected under the domestic copyright of the writer. It is illegal to copy fan fiction without authorial permission, or to claim it as your own when it isn't. This past week I was alerted that someone had posted Chapter One of "Winds" onto two of their MSN Groups sites, claiming it as their own work and ignoring any requests to have it removed. With much work and patience, one of the sites has been removed and the other is on a warning. Readers, if you come across a website that has stolen fan fiction, please bring it to the attention of the authors. And if things are amiss, don't sit still and let it happen. Make sure people know it is stolen. E-mail the site in question. With your help we can stop this from happening in the future. A website with no credibility can't do any damage if it steals material. Beyond that, I can't ask for anything else of you. As readers, you already do enough to make writing fan fiction more than worthwhile, and I thank you for that. :) 

That said, I need to thank Ariel D for beta reading this past chapter again. Your comments are ever helpful, especially when it comes to fixing pacing. (grins) But the monorail _can_ be on and off the tracks at the same time! ;)

Also, thank you to the reviewers!

**Ariel D** - I enjoyed writing the banter myself. ;) (grins) Oh, poor Zeil! lol You must be planning something big if you're hoarding the FPs. ;)  
**Mcj** - Hey, it's good to hear from you. :D Coming from someone who has carried a few 'big' stories herself, I'm glad to hear that it hasn't disappointed thus far. I hope you'll see what you're looking for in future chapters - there will definitely be a strain on some relationships as the boys go their 'separate' ways.  
**Ms. Imagine** - Thank you! I'm not used to writing suspense, so I'm glad to see that the chapter came across as intended. Scott's personality changed so many times as I was writing it, until I finally settled on something that worked.  
**Clairie** - Where? You'll see. When? Next chapter. Chewing out? Very likely. ;D  
**Princess Tyler Briefs** - You'll find out. ;) Nope, you didn't miss it. It's in Chapter 24. (grins) And now that you've had a little short preview for Chapter 25, you can have something to look forward too. ;)  
**Barb from Utah** - Thank you! I find that small details are what make a story memorable, because it's those details that latch onto your mind. :)  
**Assena** - Oh, I haven't forgotten about the scene in "Perils". ;) As you may have noticed, Virgil hasn't met Penny yet. So keep that in mind later, because I think you'll notice a nice little bit of interaction between Virgil and Scott when it comes to that.  
**Andrewjameswilliams** - Absolutely. :) And you'll see how the Scott/Penny situation pans out next chapter.  
**Marblez** - Soon, soon. ;) I'm taking two summer classes right now, so I'm doing the editing in between my other work. :)  
**Zeilfanaat** - I know you're reading. ;) (grins) So I hoped you liked this chapter as well.

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Catch next chapter, "Agents", where an old friend of the family comes to visit Tracy Island. Until then, FAB all! 


	24. Agents

_Dislcaimer: Thunderbirds is the property of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, as well as Carlton and Universal. No profit is intended to be made from this story; it is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended, and none should be inferred. All original characters are the property of the author. This story should not be used or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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_

**Agents  
****Late June 2018**

A shadow fell across the warm waters of the Pacific, covering up the sun and stilling the life forms that lay just under the surface. The black spot trailed slowly along the ocean, passing from horizon to horizon with little more than the simple hum of a turbojet engine.

Inside the plane sat Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward, her hands folded delicately across her lap, her mouth relaxed in a calm and refined expression. She glanced about the interior once or twice, taking care that every piece of luggage was in its place, then looked down at her own body. The pink sweater had escaped ruffling on the tarmac, she noted with much satisfaction, and the short plaid miniskirt – also a bright shade of pink – contrasted very nicely with the shirt.

All in all, Penelope was happy to be finished her last assignment with Intelligence, if simply for the reason that she could escape from wearing the hideous blue undercover garment that was her uniform.

The blonde reached up a hand and gently pulled down on a hanging drawstring. "Parker," she called, her voice accompanying the ringing of a bell in the cockpit.

"Yes, m'lady?" was the immediate reply, coming in over the speaker that was situated directly over Penelope's head. "Is there something that you need?"

"How long until we reach the island?"

"Ten minutes at most, m'lady," Parker responded. "It shouldn't be that much further."

"Excellent, Parker." The woman smiled at the thought that she would soon be shaking hands with an old acquaintance. Even if her suspicions, which had been festering and growing since she had run into International Rescue at the store fire, proved to be false, she still greatly looked forward to touching base again with Jeff Tracy.

Many things had happened to him, she knew, since they had last met in person. The funeral of her late father had been many years ago, and since then she and Jeff had kept in touch through letters and Christmas cards. Her father and the billionaire had been good acquaintances through business, and he had kept a close eye on Penelope since she had been orphaned. Her father had even granted the other man rights to his estate in his will, as her mother had died when she had been very young, and Jeff had been good enough to watch over things for her until she had turned eighteen.

It had not really been Jeff at first, Penelope remembered, but Lucy, a woman whom she had first met at the funeral and had taken an immediate liking to, who had watched over her. Though the letters always came in Jeff's name, it was Lucy's signature that always adorned the bottom. The correspondence had not ceased when the woman had passed away, and Penelope suspected that Jeff could not bring himself to stop doing something that Lucy would have kept doing until her senior years.

"How much have we not told each other," Penelope sighed, pushing aside a blond lock absently. "I've never mentioned my time with Intelligence, and I fear that he is hiding something as well."

Whatever the case, it was time to get back in contact with the man. She had things to discuss, and a proposition to put forward if it ever reached that point. There was a debt to be paid, no matter how small or unofficial it was, and a future to look to.

* * *

"The plane's coming in," Scott observed from the open deck of the home, his feet only a few short inches away from the pool edge. "Nice little craft. Horrible colour."

From behind Scott, Jeff Tracy laughed and shook his head. "That's her all right, Scott. I remember every Christmas card that she's ever sent has been pink. Every letter, pink letterhead."

"It's very bright," his son replied, looking ever so slightly disgusted at the prospect. "Why is she coming again?"

"Miss Creighton-Ward is the daughter of an old friend of mine, who unfortunately passed away several years back. She recently called me up and professed an interest in meeting face-to-face."

"Several years?" Scott raised a curious eyebrow. "I don't remember you going to the funeral."

"More than several," Jeff admitted, realising that it had happened longer ago than he had thought. "I guess it would have been more than ten years at least, since your mother went with me."

"Hmm." The young man's face furrowed in concentration. "Did the rest of us go?"

"Of course. There was no one to leave you with, except for my mother, and she was in no condition to be looking after five young children at that point. You had to come."

The words brought back a flash of memories to the elder Tracy. It had been almost that same time that his own mother had passed away, struck down by a simple illness that had taken its toll on her body for far too long. The elder woman had been strong to the end, though, even offering to take care of the boys so that Jeff and Lucy could travel to London alone. Jeff had not accepted the offer, of course, but it was the thought that mattered more than the offer itself.

Five months after the funeral, Josephine Tracy had passed away, and Jeff had found himself without any remaining family. He had been expecting it, of course, in fact had thought she would have passed away years earlier, save for her stark stubborn streak and determination. But it had still been a shock, one that he had not recovered from for some time after.

And then, only a few short years after it had happened, the family had planned a vacation to Switzerland over the Christmas break. Just a short excursion through the mountains, where he and Lucy could take a ride on one of the most technologically advanced monorails in the world.

"Dad?"

Jeff turned towards his son, whose face was now openly showing worry and concern for his father. "I'm all right," Jeff assured him, trying to put on a strong face for the sake of his son. "Just remembering." He glanced at the sky, only to see that the plane had vanished around to the other side of the island where the landing strip was. "We'd better be there when they arrive. I wouldn't want to play the part of the unfriendly host."

* * *

He knew, the moment that she stepped from the plane, her hair waving ever so slightly in the light breeze of the pacific. There was no mistaking her, no other person on the planet had her eyes, her smile, her almost unearthly grace . . . even the sophisticated pink ensemble was not enough to convince him otherwise.

A jumble of thoughts crossed Scott Tracy's mind at that moment. He truly didn't know what to think or what to do for that matter. In a few seconds Penelope was going to see him, thus revealing to her a secret that he had thought was honestly safe. He didn't know if he could trust her, though he believed, based upon his father's words and his own experience, that she was trustworthy.

He had to say something, had to do something other than stand in front of the plane, his mouth curved in an idiotic grin, his eyes opened in something like shock because he couldn't think of what to do!

Scott wasn't sure whether to be thankful or not when Penelope solved the problem herself. Strutting forward gracefully from the plane, she stopped a few feet in front of the two men and gave them a dazzling smile.

"Penelope Creighton-Ward, at your service." She turned her head ever so slightly, and her eyes – those wonderfully brilliant eyes – locked with Scott's. "Why Scott, what a surprise seeing you here."

He nodded dumbly, completely unsettled to even think of saying anything in response.

"You know each other? I mean, aside from when you met when you were children." The older Tracy's voice was ripe with surprise. "Penny, you never mentioned it in any of your letters."

The woman nodded slightly, turning to face the man. "I _have _met your son, Jeff, and not that long ago I might add." She smiled secretively. "There are some things that I would like to discuss, but not until we sit down and catch up a bit."

"I'll go get some drinks," Scott finally managed, slapping himself mentally for saying something so ridiculously stupid. "I'll have them ready in the kitchen."

As he quickly hurried into the house, he could distinctly hear the voices of his father and of Penelope mingling behind him.

"I've never seen him act so strange."

"It is completely my fault, I assure you," was the response, spoken in a smooth and lush tone.

Scott, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment, then in irritation, slammed the door behind him. The game, apparently, was not yet over, and he was already losing. If he weren't careful, if he didn't quickly smooth things over, the situation would become very . . .

Embarrassing, he thought darkly, vowing that the next time he saw her, he would do more than stare with his jaw hanging open. Secrecy was out the window, but so was a certain unofficial pact that he had made with himself long ago. Quite suddenly, Penelope Creighton-Ward had become very available. He wasn't quite sure what to make of the emotions in his chest, but he did understand one thing:

He wasn't about to let the woman leave without telling her exactly how he felt. That, of course, he still had to discover for himself. But an opportunity like this did not come every day.

* * *

Hoping that he wasn't catching his brother at a bad time, Scott quickly logged into the International Rescue system and activated the Thunderbird Five communications relay. The computer in the study hummed for a moment, then chimed and informed him on the screen that a link had been established. Smiling in relief, Scott sat himself down at the chair and waited as the program loaded. He had been tempted to find Virgil and talk to him – the younger man was home from school after his graduation – but had instead settled on John in the hopes that he wouldn't be prone to too much teasing.

Finally, the visual screen popped up on the monitor, with the subtly smiling face of John Tracy plastered in the middle of it.

"Hi, Scott!" The astronomer grinned widely upon seeing his brother, the smile pinching the corners of his eyes so that they nearly disappeared. "What's up?"

Unsure of how to begin, Scott simply shrugged and muttered, "Someone's visiting Dad."

John's eyes widened in surprise. It was very unusual for any visitors to come to the island, and even more unusual for them to come to see the boys' father. "Really? Who is it?"

"Penelope Creighton-Ward," Scott replied darkly, wishing that her name didn't have to be so ridiculously long. "Lady, I should add. Remember her?"

"Should I?" John thought for a long moment, hand on his mouth, then suddenly snapped his fingers. "Maybe. Blond hair, pretty smile?"

"That's the one," Scott sighed, falling back in the chair. "Gorgeous smile. Wonderful eyes." The last few words were nearly spat from his mouth. "Mind as sharp as the point of a knife."

His brother's eyes twinkled suspiciously, and when he spoke it was in a vaguely teasing tone. "That bad, huh? And I always thought you had your head on straight, Scott. I never thought you'd actually fall for a looker, let alone a smart one." The younger man shook his head slightly, another smile coming to his lips. "I remember her. We went to London for her father's funeral."

"So I find out now," Scott moaned quietly, banging his back against the chair rest for good measure. "Remember that woman I dealt with in London?"

"Which one?"

"I'm being serious!" Scott snapped, not appreciating the comical tone that his brother was taking. "The one at the fire, the agent. The one named-"

"Penelope," John finished, still laughing despite Scott's irritated glares. "Yeah, we should have seen that one coming. Dad never called her Penelope, though, so in all fairness you couldn't have known. But I've seen her on the television, apparently she's quite well known in Britain-" He stopped suddenly, his eyes growing unbelievably large over the monitor screen. "Scott," he whispered in a very subdued tone, "she knows."

"I know she knows." Feeling very helpless, Scott rubbed his face with his hands and leaned his head onto the back of the chair. "We were screwed the moment she saw my face. But I never thought she'd come here. I was sure that she didn't remember me, but I guess she did."

The two men both stared off into their respective spaces for a long moment, until John finally sighed and offered, "I remember her to be a trustworthy person."

"When she was what, ten?" Scott exploded, only to clam up in embarrassment at the outburst. "Seriously," he continued a little more quietly, "what do we know about her? She's probably already told Dad by now. Maybe she's cooking up some sort of deal to wring us for all the money that we don't have tied up in stocks."

"She's a part of Intelligence," John replied calmly, "so she would be used to keeping secrets. You don't know why she came here – maybe she honestly wanted to touch base with Dad again! Maybe you reminded her, and she wanted to see what we were up to."

"I screwed up." That was what he had intended to say when he first called John up. The entire mess was his fault, which was something that Scott hated to admit but knew was true all the same. His stupid flirting antics were going to cost them the organization – if only he had kept his mouth shut, his ego in check, and had never started trying to impress her in the first place.

"No you didn't," was the reply, spoken softly from the computer. "Scott you couldn't have known that she was a friend of the family. Besides, if you were honestly that attracted to her, could she really be that bad?" John gave a comforting grin.

"I suppose," Scott sighed, seeing the point that John was trying to make, but still unable to shake from his mind the knowledge that he could have made the situation less drastic. "I still should have been careful, though. I mean, it wasn't as if she really bowled me over. It was just the pleasure of being in the room with a real woman that got me, I guess. That's why I never –" his words trailed off as his desire to share them with John grew less and less.

Somehow, Scott wondered, John had already seemed to have figured out what he was trying to say, for the astronomer was bobbing his head up and down on the screen in silent thought.

"Don't kid yourself, Scott." John let out a long drawn out breath and met his brother's expression with a serious one of his own. "What are we supposed to do - pretend that we don't have feelings or that they mean nothing if they do exist? If Dad expects you to spend your entire life looking through a glass cage at the opposite sex then he's being very stupid. I don't think he's stupid, Scott, and I think he'll understand your situation. What you did was completely human."

"What I did was completely arrogant."

"You're still doing it!" John hissed, rubbing his face in dismay. "This is not all about you, Scott!"

The words slammed into Scott like a bullet. Slowly, as his body caught up with is brain, a faint red tint spread across his face and into his hairline. It was very hard to admit even in his mind, but John did have a distinct point. The situation was not magically going to be made better, and his constant whining about his mistake was not going to help any.

Still, John seemed to be oddly . . . irritable, perhaps, more than normal, for he was not generally so touchy when dealing with his siblings.

"But . . ." Logic won out, and Scott threw his hands up in the air, resigned. "All right, you've made your point."

"We'll deal with things as they happen. It's not always going to be a bed of roses for us living alone . . ." The young man's eyes grew distant, and he shook his head and smile sadly. "I remember it."

"The funeral?" Scott was almost envious of John, who seemed to remember a great deal more of that point in his life than he did. "It was ten years ago at least."

"Twelve," John corrected absently, "you were ten years old. I was eight."

"I don't remember much," Scott sighed, and in truth he didn't. There were just blurred flashes of colour, snippets of sound. A young girl, pretty blond hair done up in ringlets, dressed in black, standing in front of an ornate coffin . . . and another woman, older, blond hair pulled into a plain yet elegant ponytail, laying her hand on the girl's shoulder and whispering something quietly into her ear. "Mom was there." Of course she had been, for his father had said so, yet it was so much more tangible when he was able to see it in his own mind. "I remember that."

"Mom was really upset."

Scott's head snapped up, startled by the troubled and wavering tone that his brother spoke in. The young man's eyes were clouded over, as if he were lost deep in memory.

"It bothered her that Penelope was on her own," John continued, his voice quiet. "Don't you remember? Mom did everything to try and comfort her. We stayed in London for a week while she guided Penelope around and tried to help her get past the shock. I wonder," he stopped, and looked off screen at something that Scott couldn't see. "If she hadn't been there, I wonder if Penelope would have been all right."

Astounded that John could remember so much, especially about their mother, Scott simply shook his head and said nothing.

"I don't think she'd ever do anything to our family," John finished. "Mom did too much for her. Dad, too. He took care of all the legal matters that hadn't been looked after properly. Made sure she was looked after." He sighed. "Look where she is now. She's a beautiful and refined woman who's at the top of the social ladder where she comes from. Heck, Scott, if she fooled you that easily, then her head's pretty straight on her shoulders."

"I . . ." Scott sighed as well and turned to look out the window where he could vaguely make out the forms of his father and Penelope standing by the pool. "I'm glad you're here to tell me these things."

"Any time." John smiled and gave his brother a loose military style salute. "Now that we've sorted that out, are you going to sit in here until she leaves or are you going to go do something?"

That was a good question, Scott thought, a touch of intrigue coming back into his mind. "I don't know," he replied slowly, already formulating a plan of action in his mind. "But I do know that I intend to finish what she started."

"She started?" John raised an eyebrow. "All right then, good luck with that. However, I won't be around to pick up the pieces of you when you're finished, so make sure you have someone to clean up after you."

"Huh?"

"You said she's as sharp as a knife," the astronomer offered with a tiny smile. "Need I say more?"

Determined to prove his brother wrong, Scott smirked and replied, "Nope. I think I'll go locate the party in question."

"You do that then. Thunderbird Five out."

* * *

Scott realized as soon as he stepped back into the lounge that it had been a bad idea to leave. By the looks on the faces of his father and Penelope, he had obviously missed hearing something very crucial, and he doubted that he would be privy to the news until later on when the woman finally left. Several sheets of paper rested on a table between them, along with what appeared to be a pair of martini glasses.

"I can't understand why he ran off," the older man was busy saying, shaking his head in dismay. "He's not normally like that, especially around women."

Scott bristled at the comment, which he could hear plainly from where he stood at the top of the stairwell. What the hell did his father mean by that?

"Oh, I assure you Jeff, I take no offence to his behaviour. He's been like that ever since we met."

"In London, you mean."

"No, the more that I think about it, the more I seem to recall him displaying similar behaviour at my father's funeral."

"That's not a surprise to hear."

Tired of listening to the two talk about him behind his back, Scott traversed the stairs in a very deliberate manner and placed himself directly behind the table with the paperwork. His father and Penelope both stopped talking and glanced up at him.

"Scott! I was wondering where you'd run off to."

Penelope gave him a suave smile and nodded her head slightly in greeting. "It is fabulous to see you again, Scott."

Scott doubted that his father could see it, but he saw clearly the teasing gleam that flashed across her eyes. Trying to keep his face from reddening, he flashed the woman his own smile and pulled over a chair so he could join the conversation. "Likewise. I hope Intelligence didn't keep you too busy after that little escapade."

"A bit," the blonde admitted, all the while smiling that radiant smile that was still threatening to send Scott's heart jumping. "Not too terribly much, mind you, but enough to keep me from becoming too bored. Parker is being a dear right now and is taking care it for me in the plane so that I can visit uninterrupted."

Before Scott could say anything, his father laughed and slapped his son affectionately on the knee.

"Good to hear, Penny. This Parker sounds like a good man."

"Indeed, Jeff. A fabulous man. Very dependable."

Penny? How well did his father know the woman, wondered Scott in confusion. Apparently they had kept in better touch then the older man had hinted at.

"How'd you find him?"

"Breaking into my home, if you would believe it. Poor Parker, reduced to a thief, and with his skills too!"

"Amazing. But I suppose that everyone changes."

"Of course. And about that-"

"Right. I'd forgot."

"Would you like to tell him, Jeff?"

"If you want. Scott, how you feel about Penelope joining our team?"

The words went into Scott's head, banged around for a few seconds, then collided suddenly with his cerebral cortex. "What?"

"Not as a pilot," the older man continued, completely oblivious to his son's shock. "More as an agent. Someone who could be on call for us in some other part of the world, who could do research or even scout out situations for us. I'd been thinking about this for a while, but I hadn't come across anyone to hire until now. Penelope is very willing to help us up, and I think we should take her up on her offer."

"Quite right," the woman added, "I owe you and Lucille more than I could ever hope to repay."

"Scott?"

Two very opposing thoughts had a hold of Scott Tracy's mind, both of which tried to pull him in one direction or the other.

Could they really trust Penelope? – that was the forerunner. Looking to his father, Scott could see in the older man an underlying trust in the woman that would not have been easily won. His father was not fooled easily, so his confidence in Penelope had to be genuine.

The other thought came from a deeper part of him - a part that insisted Penelope should become a member of the organization. This would mean that he could continue to see her, could continue to . . .

Do what? He still didn't know.

"I . . ." Knowing that his father would be expecting an answer, Scott immediately nodded and finished, "I think that's a great idea."

"Fabulous!" Penelope put in, giving Scott a thankful look. "It would mean a great deal to me to be able to aid your organization. I owe Lucille that much at least."

"Then it's settled." Scott's father gave the woman a pleased smile and offered her his hand to shake. "Welcome to International Rescue. It's a pleasure to have you as part of the team."

"Likewise." All the while, Penelope looked not at the older Tracy, but at Scott, her eyes twinkling in a most peculiar fashion. "Now, do I have the privilege of meeting the rest of your wonderful family? It's been so long, I hardly remember them at all."

Scott opened his mouth to respond, only to be once again cut short by his father.

"I'd love to, Penny, but the younger boys unfortunately are still at school for a couple more weeks. Virgil is home, but he's off working on something and I doubt he'd want to be disturbed. If you'd like, though I can introduce you to John."

"That would be lovely."

She's part of the family now, Scott saw with a faint trace of satisfaction. _For better or for worse, she'll be following us around for some time to come. _And perhaps, just perhaps . . .

Shaking the thought from his mind, he followed his father and Penelope out of the room.

* * *

Whether he was doing it intentionally or not – Scott favoured the latter – John Tracy was doing an amiable job of irritating his older brother. Scott knew that it stemmed from the fact that John was by nature a likeable person if he ever immerged from his social shell, but he couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy every time that Penelope smiled at one of the astronomer's comments.

"It sounds simply fabulous up there," the woman was busy saying, at which John nodded and laughed.

"Absolutely. I wouldn't trade this for anything else."

"We have to practically drag him down," Jeff Tracy added from where he stood beside Penelope. The woman was seated at his desk in the study, while her eyes were directed toward the Thunderbird Five uplink on the computer screen. "Sometimes I worry that he's going to mutate into a space rock."

John snorted and waved an unconcerned hand. "I don't think I have . . ."

A small laugh, a giggle really, escaped Penelope's mouth. "Certainly not, John. I've never known space rocks to be so handsome."

_She's doing it again_, Scott thought in amazement, wondering why he had been so pleased at her joining the team, and wishing that some part of him had not decided to become so attached to her. Even if it wasn't intentional on her part, she was still managing to rub things in his face. Well, he was going to put things right andsnip heraccidental attempt to irritate him in the bud."Miss Creighton-Ward-"

"Please Scott, call me Penny."

"Penny, then. You should know that you can't expect my brother to have any interest in women, especially ones that like to flirt. I mean, he's up there all the time, so how is he supposed to have any feelings like that?" Scott felt as twinge of guilt as John's face fell. There was some truth behind his statement – Scott was sure that John honestly had no interest in settling down with anyone - but not to the degree that he had suggested.

"Thanks, Scott." The astronomer's face coloured a nice shade of pink, and his eyes looked somewhere off screen so that he didn't have to meet either Penelope or Scott's gaze. "I can manage myself, you know."

"Scott!" Jeff scolded, using a tone that Scott could remember having heard one too many times in his childhood. "Young man, I don't like your attitude one bit. Apologise to your brother and Lady Penelope."

"It's okay, Dad," John added, a bit too calmly for Scott's guilty conscience to like. "Scott's just bringing up a valid point. In fact, we were talking about it earlier, weren't we?"

"I also understand," Penelope put in, her soothing tone calming down the conversation immediately. "I can see that a person like you would be more deserving of a woman of your mother's quality. They are so hard to find; it's understandable that you've stopped looking. Chronic flirts like me are perhaps better suited for a less charming breed of men."

The words were tonic – Scott could see it plainly in the way that John slowly looked back at the screen, a tiny smile returning to his face. "Thank you."

"You're most welcome, John." Penelope turned her attention towards Jeff, seemingly ignoring all of Scott's attempts to catch her eye one last time. "Jeff, I believe that it is time for me to return to London. Intelligence will be after me if I don't arrive home on time, and I have no intention of submitting another report of that manner. I realise that I have not been here long, but I don't have time to dally."

"I understand."

"You will be coming back, right?" Scott mentally beat himself as soon as the words left his mouth.

Penelope turned towards him and gave him a long and appraising stare. Finally, she nodded, and – with the slightest hint of satisfaction – replied, "Of course, Scott. I look forward to meeting the rest of your brothers. If John is any indication, the rest of them should be very charming indeed."

_What about me,_ screamed the part of Scott's mind that was generally subdued and quiet. _Don't you care about me?_ Another part yet took the time to yell that he was being ridiculous, that it was all just a game, after all, and by looking into it too far he was making a fool of himself and hurting his brother. For Penelope hadn't meant anything by her comment to John. In fact, she hadn't directed anything at all in his direction to suggest that.

"You're welcome back anytime, Penny. In fact, the rest of the boys will be coming home soon for the summer. Feel free to stop in sometime if you want to meet them. I can even have Brains have a look at your plane while you're over and perhaps make some modifications to it to make the trip less lengthy."

"Thank you, Jeff. That would be fabulous."

Scott Tracy made no move to follow the pair as they left the room. Instead, he was left standing with his thoughts – and the irritating and quiet chortles of his brother – and trying to figure out where he had gone wrong. He had been obvious enough, he thought, with his conversation. But why she hadn't taken hold and had ignored him in favour of speaking - flirting, he insisted silently - with his brother, he had no idea.

He was being serious for once, and she seemed to have no intention of even listening to him!

"Game set and match."

Flipping around so that he faced the computer, Scott scowled at his brother and replied, "She obviously liked you enough."

Looking slightly insulted that Scott was jealous, John raised his hands in defence and responded, "Listen, I had not planned in any way shape or form to steal the attention away from you. She did it all on her own. You were right - she's smart. Very smart."

"Great."

"Face it. She's playing with you, Scott."

Of course she was, Scott thought glumly. She had been playing with him since they first met. Why on Earth did he keep thinking that that was ever going to change?

"I am such an idiot," he finally decided, causing his brother to launch into another wave of laughter.

"Y'know, after your little jab at me earlier, I could almost call us even if you hold to that. I would like to remind you that blood between brothers only applies when I'm not there to take a swing at you and draw it."

"John, there's no way that you could kick my ass."

"Want to try? I can give you a rain-check for when I get home next. I can't believe that you said that to her!"

Scott opened his mouth to respond but found the words were stifled back by a large component of shock. He could count on his fingers the number of times that his younger brother at been anything less than amiable. Something was obviously bothering him.

"John, is something wrong?"

The other man's face turned a light shade of red, and he shook his head. "Other than you? No, not really."

The sound of an airplane engine stopped the argument cold.

"What the hell is that?" Running to the window, Scott looked out just in time to see Penelope's plane lift gracefully from the ground and into the sky.

"The plane?" John called from the computer.

"The plane," Scott moaned, banging his head hard on the glass window. For all of the times that he was first on an accident scene, he had missed the one opportunity that he truly had wanted to take advantage of. By poking fun at his brother earlier - and having to clean up his mess after the fact - he had tossed up the last chance he had to set things right with Penelope. "Too late."

* * *

He had blown it. Those words echoed round and round in Scott's head until he seemed to be surrounded by a jeering and angry mob. He had let Penelope leave without ever having . . . ever having what? Flattered her? Kissed her and taken her to bed?

Won her over, perhaps, he thought in a dejected manner. Beaten her at her own game. But once again, she had conquered him, not the other way around, and he was left biting his tongue, wondering about what could have happened or what should have happened.

"Time to go back to my groupies," he sulked, leaning back against the hard plastic back of one of the pool chairs. The sun was irritatingly bright, and Scott wished that he could simply flip a switch and turn it off until he felt better. "I so look forward to the next public mauling after a rescue."

He should never have become involved in the first place, he thought. He knew better than to become attached to a woman emotionally, and he had always known the dangers of dealing with a woman who could actually fight back. Well, it was done and over with, and Scott did not intend to make the same mistake again. It was time to return his life to the way it used to be, before Penelope Creighton-Ward had sauntered in with her cute pink dress and taken a hold of his attention.

For that's what she had truly done, he knew then. He didn't like to admit it, but it was the hard truth.

"Scott."

Startled by his father's voice, Scott had to grab both sides of the chair to stop himself from falling over. "What?"

Ignoring the less than respectful greeting, Jeff wordlessly handed a folded sheet of paper to his son. He turned to leave, then added, "She gave it to me before she left." With that, he returned to the house and closed the door quietly behind him.

Scott looked down at the letter in hands for a long moment, turning it over and over, almost expecting something to jump out at him. When nothing did, and he was sure that there was nothing more to the letter then pink ink and paper, he unfolded it and began to read.

_Dear Scott,_

_I do believe that I forgot to say good-bye to you, of all people. How silly of me! I suppose that I should make up for it in some way. If you would be so kind, I will be on vacation from work the week after the next and would love it if you could stop by my home and have tea. If your father deems that unsuitable, then I shall see you over the summer when I stop by at your home._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Penny_

It took several long minutes for the entire contents of the letter to truly sink in. As realization dawned upon Scott Tracy, a feeling of shear and utter bliss flooded through his body. She was inviting him to her home. For tea.

It was close enough to a date that he didn't really care what language she used. She was interested in him after all . . .

She was doing it to him again – and Scott Tracy honestly didn't give a damn. What was life, after all, without a little intrigue? A person couldn't live their entire life without having a little bit of excitement.

A huge grin blossoming onto his face, Scott ran towards the house with the intent of flaunting the letter in the face of a certain astronomer, bad mood or not. Perhaps life, in all of its mystique and suspense, wasn't so cruel to him after all.

* * *

**A/N:** Things are certainly interesting at the Tracy household right now. Scott losing his touch, John grumpy and aggravated . . . what's going on? Women, of course, the source of trouble for most men. ;) But it will pass soon enough. A huge thank-you is once again due to be given to Ariel D, who, through her wonderful comments, reminded me that I wrote the chapter when I was in a snarky mood. Hopefully Penny and Scott don't come across quite as vicious now. ;)

Thank you to everyone who is reading (Zeil, hope you're having fun sailing :) ) and reviewing!

**Ariel D** - Thank you. ;D  
**Assena **- Yep, Scott is definitely not being the realm of Virgil and Gordon's subtle teasing. ;)  
**mcj** - It's funny how this feels almost like the end of John's story, yet this story itself is only about half complete. Thank you so much; your words mean a lot to me. :)  
**Antilles** - I'm not really sure what you're asking. I know that Scott comes across as arrogant in the movie, but it is my opinion that characters have depth that allows them to have more than one dominant trait or emotion. For one thing, Scott was pretty pumped during and after the movie rescue. He needs a reason to be bossy, after all. ;) That said, I think highlighting that part of his personality too much would overshadow all other facets of him.  
**Math Girl** - Two massive egos is, to quote, 'quite right'. ;) Also, I am glad that John came across as tough in his own way. Most people never experience what he has gone through because they're not aware enough and conscious enough to understand their own thoughts as much as he does. :) Thanks so much for your kind words.  
**andrewjameswilliams** - Thanks! It's amazing how children can have healing powers of their own.  
**Marblez** - Thanks! lol And you know, I'm having trouble trying to write a three-thousand word short story for my class. Go figure.  
**Princess Tyler Briefs** - Wow, I never thought my story would be able to do that. :) (sighs) I promise, I'll finish your beta read soon! My brain is reduced to mush right now, though, and I want to do it when I'm thinking clearly.  
**Barb from Utah** - I really like imperfections in characters. :) It makes them so much more enjoyable to write.  
**Spense** - I think that if poor John weren't quite so self-aware he wouldn't have so many problems. ;D But he has things all figured out now. Lol Thanks for reviewing! It's great to see a new reader.  
**Tikatu** - It's wonderful to hear from you. :) I'm really flattered that tv-verse writers (brilliant ones, at that) do take the time out to read movie-verse fics. I hope that I can keep the quality level up for the rest of the story.

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Be on the look out for next chapter, titled "Minor Alterations", which features hydrogen peroxide, uniform designs, grilled cheese sandwiches, forest fires, and one disgruntled space monitor. Until then, FAB all! 


	25. Minor Alterations

_Dislcaimer: Thunderbirds is the property of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, as well as Carlton and Universal. No profit is intended to be made from this story; it is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended, and none should be inferred. All original characters are the property of the author. This story should not be used or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

* * *

_

**A/N:** This piece actually begins before the last chapter, "Agents", but the bulk of the story takes place after "Agents". The time frame is given in the story.

**A/N 2:** Those of you who have read beeinyourbonnet's stories might notice a bit of a similarity between this chapter, and her story "A Lesson In Spontaneity". I honestly did not write this chapter with her story in mind, but I acknowledge that a few similarities are there. I would like to attribute them to the both of us looking at/writing about John doing something stupid. So I'll take this moment to say that beeinyourbonnet's story is a billion times funnier, and I'd never intentionally try to one-up it because I'd never be able to. :)

* * *

**Minor Alterations  
****Late June 2018**

Morning came early for John Tracy - too early for his liking but not so early that he felt a need to complain about it. The alarm woke him from a dead sleep, sending him flying upwards in his bed in a cold sweat. He had been up on the station for almost four months and he still wasn't used to being awakened by the blaring red alert siren.

_I've got to get Dad to send up a normal alarm clock in the next supply batch,_ he thought as he tried to calm his heart rate down. Every morning since he had first set foot on the station had been an adventure, but the wake up call was by far the most jarring and brutal thing he had encountered.

Yawning loudly – something he had taken to doing for the reason that there was no one else around to hear – John stretched his arms, gave his back a good crick, then pushed himself off the bed. He grabbed a fresh uniform on his way to the washroom, stopping only briefly to make sure that he indeed had grabbed the underwear to go with it. He had forgotten to do so on several occasions, and it had made the trip back to his room a rather uncomfortable one.

After a quick ten-minute shower, John found himself gazing at his own expression in the makeshift mirror that he had set up in the washroom. The washroom wasn't even really a washroom but was instead a smaller storage closet that he had simply converted into a watertight bathing facility. Any water that ran from the shower – which irritatingly lacked a curtain, something that both bothered him and made him amused at the same time – inevitably was collected in the grates that ran along the bottom corners of the room.

The tiling on the floor was not ceramic but instead plastic, and was simply the inside of a very large artificially constructed box. The room contained a plumbing system, a built in water purifier, and a heater that allowed for him to take warm showers instead of the ice cold ones that he had been subjected to during his first weeks about the station.

All in all, it wasn't much worse than what he had access to down on the island. John even found that he was becoming attached to the whole set-up, though he still didn't know what to make of showering naked in the middle of an unlocked washroom.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, he grabbed a nearby razor and prepared to clean himself up for the day. Bringing the blade to his face, he was startled to see something that he was definitely not expecting to see. It couldn't possibly be there on his face, but there it was all the same.

A brown hair.

John bent closer to the mirror and peered long and hard at his complexion. He was definitely paler, which was understandable given how much time he spent in the dark. The station was lit, but artificially so and he had completely expected to turn a pale shade of white during his time on board.

But a brown hair! He had always, as long as he could remember, been a natural blond. And not even a dirty blond, but a pale blond with the classical blue eyes to match.

He poked a finger at the little hair, which protruded just slightly from the front of his hair line, and gave a long and profound sigh. It was bound to happen. He had heard stories about people's hair darkening from long periods without sunlight. Though he had spent a great deal of time inside when he had worked for NASA, he realized that he had still been under some form of harsh light. The lights up on Thunderbird Five were very gentle, and were built that way intentionally so as not to be hard on his eyes.

"I can't be going brown," he muttered, still convinced that the one hair was simply a fluke, and that it would go away and disappear if he let it. "I'm a natural blond. It's not going to happen." He _had_ noticed over a period of years that his hair had been gradually darkening, but it had never been to the point that it had become completely brown. "I'll be going grey before I know it." It didn't matter to him that brown was quite obviously further from grey than blond was. Colour change was colour change.

Making up his mind, John set down his razor, picked up a pair of scissors, and expertly snipped off the offending lock. It was better to be safe than sorry, he thought happily, as the hair fell into the sink. A quick splash of water sent it spiralling into oblivion.

Convinced that he could continue getting ready without any more interruptions, John picked up the razor again and set to work.

* * *

Down on the island, Virgil Tracy was having his own difficulties. At his father's request, he and Brains had begun to draft out a basic diagram of the elevator system that was to be installed in the home's main study. Virgil had thought up the idea several months earlier but had not had time to implement it. Now that school was finished, however, he had all the time in the world to start work on the project. His graduation had allowed him to leave school earlier than his brothers, and he had the entire island to work with. 

Leaning over a set of schematics, Virgil smiled absently and gazed out at the cavern around him. He still felt the same awe at the sight that he had the first time he had laid eyes on it. It was truly a marvel of engineering and science, and it almost blew his mind that his father and Brains had been able to create most of it on their own.

Now it was time for him to make a contribution to it all. After the initial excitement of joining the team had worn off, he had found himself feeling a bit apprehensive about the entire venture. After all, team already had two good pilots, one brilliant engineer, and a jack-of-all-trades scientist working for them. Where could he fit in with all of that?

But then, little by little, ideas had begun to pop into Virgil's brain, ideas that had nothing to do with engineering – though he was painstakingly working on the elevator system as requested. They were more to do with a field that he was very familiar with and a great deal more comfortable working with.

He looked back down at the schematics and realised with a start that he had been absently doodling on the paper again. None of the drawings actually covered the technical work – something he had done, much to his dismay, several times in at least a week – but they were there all the same.

Whether he admitted it or not, Virgil knew that he was an artist at heart, and no amount of engineering work would bang that out of him. True, engineers with greater imaginations often went further, but when it came down to designing small nitpicky electrical details . . . he had better things to do with his time.

Giving up with the elevator for the moment, Virgil reached into the drawer of the desk and pulled out a fresh sheet of drafting paper. The material was smooth, a bit smoother than he normally liked it, but it would suit his purposes. The pencil, a hard 4H used for schematics, was hardly a sketching pencil, but he had been drawing with it for weeks, hadn't he?

Slowly, so as not to rush the task and make a mistake, he quickly drafted out the outline of a human figure. His father, he remembered, had once complained that the uniforms were very drab, or not really even uniforms at all. He had distinctly remembered the man saying he wished that they could do something with the flight suits so that the team members stood out more on the rescue field.

Virgil snorted and briefly wondered what that would do to Scott. His brother was already chased around enough as it was by women – he had managed to almost snag Lady Penelope after all – even in the grey suit. What would something brighter and more noticeable do?

For a very short moment Virgil was tempted to design up something along the lines of a bright blue jump-suit, if only for the entertainment value of seeing Scott being run down by a riot of women. Shaking his head and deciding that he liked his brother too much to subject him to that, he began to work on some modifications to the already existing suits.

* * *

It was happening again. It had been exactly one day since the hair had first appeared, and now it seemed to have returned with company. Completely convinced that he had not fully awakened and was living in some sort of odd dream world, John pinched his arm hard and willed himself to wake up. All he received from the effort was a sharp and shooting pain down to his wrist. 

"Ow!" He shook his arm out furiously and glared at the guilty party that reflected back at him in the glass. There, plainly visible on his scalp, were at least twenty brown hairs sticking out noticeably from amidst the – still darkening, he observed with a frown – blond ones. Twenty was too many to pluck out. He didn't have that much stamina to begin with, and he didn't feel like causing himself unnecessary pain. They were also buried too deep in his thick mat of hair for him to have any hope of snipping them out with the scissors.

Turning his head slightly so that he could see the back, John was annoyed to see even more brown hair present on the flat of his head, flecked in with the lighter bits like pepper on scrambled eggs.

"They have to go," John decided calmly. A quick look around the sink around, however, brought to mind a very large problem. He had no way to get rid of them without making a huge mess.

So, for the second time in a week, John Tracy shook his head, tried to convince himself that they would vanish, and continued to go about his morning activities.

* * *

The uniforms were coming along very nicely. It had only taken twenty minutes for Virgil to draw up the initial design, and – being pleased with the result – he had quickly moved to refining it so that it would be the most practical. Over the course of a few days since the idea had initially struck he had made several specific plans for the suits, until he had decided on one that really jumped out at him. Now, four days later, it was almost ready. 

He took a long look at the paper that lay before him, taking in each and every detail and weighing them in his mind. For the most part the jump suits would remain the same, drab grey exterior and formless fit. To combat the dullness he had sketched a set of thick letters, which spelt out 'Thunderbirds', down the sides of the arms, each one coloured in with a tone that he had yet to pick. He had also added small shoulder decorations that, when turned sideways, were the shape of a T. The logo, which he had been unconsciously tossing about in his mind for a long time, was a simple circle with lines flying from the right side. The letters IR were imbedded in the center of it.

It was the next part that made him think. Inevitably, whether they wanted to or not, the members of International Rescue ended up giving out their first names at an accident scene. It had happened with Scott and Lady Penelope – though Virgil was quite sure that it had been more than work related in their case, based upon what he had heard after the fact – as well as with all the other members of the team. Wouldn't it make much more sense to have their first names printed directly on the uniforms?

For one thing, Virgil realised that willingly giving out a first name would likely deter people from pressing for more information. It would also save the time spent for introductions at the rescue scene.

That settled it. Leaning closer to the desk so that he could see, Virgil quickly sketched in a little nametag on the design of the uniform. As an afterthought he added another one that contained the full name of the operation, International Rescue.

There was still some work to be done, he knew, for there was the issue of the colours. But he would work that out later when had had more time.

* * *

This time they had truly gone too far. John could feel his mouth hanging open in shock, and he could see his own eyes – reflected in the mirror – growing wide with horror. Twenty, thirty, forty – there was a lot more than forty hairs on his head that were now a lovely chestnut brown. 

A _lot_ more. In fact, he didn't even have to bend in close to the mirror to see the massive disease that had spread across his scalp over a period of four days. Brown. The colour looked all right on Virgil, he thought moodily, but it just didn't suit him. It was so . . . bland, so very not blond that it bothered him even to look at it.

And it was more than his hair simply fading from lack of sunlight – he could see now, when he took the time to look, that the hairs had simply grown out brown and were only blond on the tips. It had obviously been happening for some time, but he had not noticed it until the hair was far enough grown that the brown became noticeable.

A part of John's brain yelled at him and told him that he was being far too picky for his own good. What did it matter what colour his hair was? No one, aside from his father and brothers, saw him at all. People couldn't tell over the radio what it looked like. And maybe it was just a chemical imbalance, something that Brains could clear up with a quick dose of some special medication of his.

"He didn't notice last night when he and Penelope called," John sighed, thinking about the talk that he'd had with his father, "but he'll sure notice this!" He wasn't even sure why he was embarrassed about the colouring. Most young men his age would be distraught if they were balding or turning grey, but for some reason the presence of a few brown hairs was enough to aggravate him. That thought had already crossed his mind, though, and he had discarded it just as quickly.

Irritation building in him, John tossed his razor down and flung open the door to the medicine cabinet. There was plenty of useful stuff on the shelves – creams, Band-Aids, dental floss . . . but nothing that he could use to fix his hair. A groan escaped his lips, and he angrily slammed the door closed. The mirrored door, built on a solid steel frame, collided hard with the rest of the cabinet and promptly flew back open. The action shook the case itself, and sent a clear bottle of liquid tumbling down from the very top shelf. It connected with the top of John's head with a loud smack.

"For the love of," John growled, rubbing his head with one hand and grabbing the bottle from the sink with the other. It was time to calm down and act like an adult, he thought in resignation; when he reached the point where he was physically hurting himself, enough was enough. He glanced briefly at the contents of the bottle, moved to replace it in its spot, then stopped and – very slowly – took a more careful look at the words written on the label.

Hydrogen Peroxide. It was the near-industrial strength cleaner that his father had brought with him on his first trip up to the station so that it could be used to sanitise the equipment. The strength of the solution had worn off the side, but John was sure that it had once read something along the lines of twenty percent.

He tossed the bottle around in his hand a few times, weighing the liquid inside as an idea slowly presented itself in his mind. It was an idea that seemed ridiculous at first thought, but it was an intriguing one none-the-less. It was too tempting for him to ignore, even amidst the warning sirens that were sounding from the more logical portion of his mind.

It couldn't hurt to try it . . . who would know?

He realized that he wasn't quite sure how to go about it, but he wasn't about to call one of his brothers to find out. No, he would manage it in the same way that any reputable scientist would manage one of their experiments.

He'd cross his fingers and hope that the mess didn't explode in his face.

* * *

Grinning widely in complete and absolute satisfaction, Virgil felt that nothing could go wrong that day. He had the designs for the uniforms finally finished, and – amidst his unofficial work – he had also managed to complete the schematics for the elevator shafts. Brains would have to check over the work of course, but they could begin work on them a soon as he ran the paper over to the other engineer. 

"This'll work," he muttered happily, rolling up the papers carefully and securing them with an elastic band. He'd clean up the mess at the desk, take the schematics to Brains, then run and show the uniform design to his father.

* * *

The first thing that John did was head over to the computer terminal and pull up the encyclopaedia that was contained in the system's hard drive. Sitting himself down on his work chair, he put his feet up, pulled the keyboard towards him on the makeshift counter that he had built from extra steel, and began his search. 

John wasn't entirely sure whether the database would have any information about what he wanted to do, but any little smidgen of data would be better then none at all. Screen after screen flashed before his eyes, compact rows of text interspersed with the occasional picture. A few times, just to still the boredom, he glanced over at the other screens that contained the rescue data, but found nothing more interesting than what he was finding in his search. Even bringing up hydrogen peroxide as a topic yielded little help, for the article went into detail about the substance's chemical features, but said little more than that it was sometimes used for hair colouring.

Deciding to try for something a little more ambiguous, John started a general search and was immediately rewarded with several articles and even some pictures on the topic. He scanned the articles quickly only to discover that they were mostly entertainment clippings from the earlier part of the century. Most of the pictures were also of that type, and his eyes were quickly drawn to an unidentified image of a rocker, his near-white hair swept back in a very . . . punk-rock gesture.

"Definitely not," John snorted, even more convinced that he was going to have to find some information about the process before he even attempted to dye his hair. There was no way that he was going to end up looking like the man on the screen. There was just no way. Perhaps it would be best if he abandoned the entire escapade . . . After all, the annoyance of the brown hairs had long ago left, to be replaced by a growing embarrassment at the entire incident, a feeling that John was more accustomed to feeling than vanity.

Still though . . . he had always wondered what he would look like with dyed hair. It was a curiosity that had plagued most of the Tracy boys at one point, given the diversity of hair colour within the immediate family itself.

He was _still _curious, he discovered, the more he thought on the matter. It was one of things that had to be done once in a lifetime. There was no harm in it at least, not like the last trendy thing he had done. That was a time that he could do well with forgetting, but unfortunately couldn't seem to - which was very surprising given that beer had been involved.

"I will be completely sober while I perform my next trick, ladies and gentlemen. Completely sober."

Ten more minutes passed before John was convinced that there was nothing to be found in the way of directions. He pushed the keyboard away from him, folded his hands under his chin, and tried to amass in his mind all that he knew about hair dye.

Peroxide had been a common method of dyeing hair for several years, mostly during the time that he was in his early childhood. The practice had eventually died somewhat, as dyes had become cheaper and better in quality and people had grown tired of having unnaturally coloured hair.

John had no intentions of looking like the man from the moon. A little peroxide, that was all that he needed, and it would fade his hair just enough to bring back its normal blond colour. Then he could officially say he had dyed his hair, could put the bottle away, and forget that he had ever done it.

He sighed and absently ran his hand through his hair, a gesture that he had done since childhood and had been unable to rid himself of even as he grew older.

"Peroxide." It had been the cheapest method available to colour hair, so the people that had used it must have been able to buy it somewhere, from either a store or a beauty salon. There was no way that they would have wasted money on very strong concentrations from the factory. And even if they or the hair salons had – and likely still did – use higher concentrations, it would probably be far too dangerous a risk to take.

No, it had to be off the shelf stuff. Three percent was the common mix used for medicinal purposes, he knew, but twenty percent wasn't that dangerous. It could burn skin, of course, but he had no intentions of leaving it on long enough to have that happen.

Pushing himself from the seat, John trotted off to the washroom in hopes that he would be able to solve his problem before any rescue calls came in for the day.

Having seen his brother, Virgil, dye the tips of his hair several times with a similar solution, John had a somewhat basic understanding of the principles of hair dye. So, somewhat carefully so as not to land the liquid in his eye or some other sensitive spot, he went about wiping the peroxide onto his locks. Quickly realising that that method was far from adequate, he brought in the chair from the command centre, reclined it back over the sink, and lay his head down onto the edge of the metal surface.

Taking the bottle in his hand, John dumped the remainder of the liquid into the stopped up sink, then slowly dipped his head back so that a portion of his hair was submerged. _This can't be healthy,_ he thought momentarily, though it was obviously too late for him to turn back. He carefully reached down beside the chair, grabbed the towel that was placed beside his feet, and dipped its corner gently into the solution. Finally, after he was sure that everything was properly soaked that would be touching his hair, John wrung out the towel's edges – a difficult act when done over one's head – sat up from the sink, and wrapped the cloth about his head. A quick application of a plastic bag had the peroxide nicely sealed away from the rest of his body.

Standing up, John took a quick look in the mirror and had to stifle the laugh that desperately tried to escape his lips. He looked so ridiculous, like he had just come back from the beauty parlour. The snort finally left his mouth, and he turned around in the mirror so that he could see the entire mess that he had created. He didn't even have to see the hair to envision what it looked like.

"I really hope that no one calls." Another thought entered his mind, and he hurried off to the control room as fast as he could, dragging his chair along with him. With a grunt, John pulled open the hatch to the Thunderbird Five communications hub. He looked into the mess of fibre optics, quickly locating the wire that he was looking for. Taking the thin glass cable between his thumb and index finger, he gave a light tug. The cable came from its socket cleanly.

Sighing in relief, John suddenly felt very guilty about the entire episode. But, he reminded himself, International Rescue never really needed video from the satellite in order to function. Audio was enough to get the team through any rescue situation.

He didn't have to remind himself that he also could just cut the video in the first place and not worried about his hair. The organisation came first in his mind . . . and, given that the shock of the brown hairs had worn off, it was his own curiosity that was landing him in the situation to begin with.

"It doesn't matter," he decided, settling himself down at the control centre so that he could begin to do his job. "I can still receive calls. I just don't need to see Dad. He doesn't have to know."

He didn't bother to mention the fact that he was embarrassed about the entire ordeal. He knew his own behaviour well enough to discern that his embarrassment was likely well founded. It only reconfirmed in his mind why he wasn't contacting his father so that someone else could monitor the systems until he was finished.

Deep down, John knew that he was acting very stupid.

_But what can happen in the next hour? It won't take that long to finish this up. They'll never have to know. _

That was, of course, assuming that the bleach worked as planned.

* * *

"These uniforms are excellent," Jeff Tracy said, giving his middle son an appreciative smile. "They're distinctive enough that we'll be recognized, yet not so bright that they'll attract undue attention." 

Virgil grinned back in response. "I thought it might work. You kept saying how the other ones were annoying you, so I thought I'd try and figure something out." He pointed at the gloves that were drawn beside the design. "I was thinking that we could have a different coloured uniform for every ship, so that people on the ground would know who was flying what. And the gloves could have a number on them or something like that."

Nodding, Jeff bit his bottom lip in contemplation. "I like that idea too, but what colours were you thinking of?"

"Blue for One," Virgil responded immediately, "green for Two and red for Three. Four could be yellow, obviously . . ."

Jeff saw where his son was going with his idea, for all of the ships had some form of colour co-ordination about them that could be matched with the uniforms. But there was a problem with Thunderbird Five, for it had no distinct colour pattern about it.

"I was thinking of black," Virgil finally offered, seeming none too pleased about the idea. "But it's such a dark colour. I was thinking of brighter ones."

"John's position is so important," Jeff added, drawing a nod from the younger man. "I'd almost like to do something that would make that obvious."

"White?"

"Too much like the uniform itself."

"Maybe not a primary, then," Virgil muttered, his eyes looking into the distance as he thought the problem through. "Gold?"

"Gold." Jeff immediately liked the idea, as gold was a colour normally associated with victory and value. "I think he'd like that. Can you get a gold colour in the material, though?"

Virgil's face fell with Jeff's words. "Probably not, unless it's reflective. It'll probably end up looking brown."

"We could tell him that the intent was to make it gold. I'm sure he'd understand the gesture."

"Probably." Virgil snorted. "Besides, I don't think he really has anything against brown as a colour."

"No." Pleased that Virgil had solved the problem, Jeff gave his son an affectionate slap on the shoulder. "Why don't you and Brains get to work on that immediately?"

The younger man opened his mouth to respond, only to be drowned out by the sudden blaring of the alert siren.

Dropping the paper he was holding onto the desk, Jeff sat himself down in front of his computer console and immediately keyed in the password. The station beeped in confirmation, re-routing computer access to the International Rescue databases and giving him immediate access to the Thunderbird Five mainframe if he needed it.

"What is it?" Virgil had come up behind Jeff to look over his shoulder.

"Forest fire," he replied, quickly bringing up the communications link with Five. "Somewhere in western Canada by the looks of it. Must be the dry season." Suddenly worried, Jeff frowned when the computer displayed the words 'Video Access Denied' on the monitor. "What the hell? What happened to the video plug in?"

"Maybe there's a loose wire at our end," Virgil offered, though he didn't sound completely convinced. "I could get Brains to check."

Jeff held up a hand and shook his head. "Just hold on." The video was out, but that didn't mean that audio was gone as well. "John, are you there?"

The speakers on the desk crackled for a second, then John's voice came through as clearly as any other day. "Sure am, Dad."

"I can't see you," Jeff continued, frowning even further when the computer informed him that it couldn't locate the reason for the malfunction. "Can you see us?"

"Yeah," the calm voice replied, "it must be an error at my end. Give me a second."

In what seemed like an oddly short amount of time, the noise of John sifting through the communications cables came through over the radio. Jeff let out a long breath and waited patiently as the noises continued.

"John?"

"There's a broken wire," John finally replied at length. There was something suspicious about his voice, Jeff thought, almost as if he were trying to fake the worried tone that he spoke in. John had always been a horrible liar even as a child. Jeff could clearly remember with little difficulty almost hundreds of moments when the boy had ratted on himself when he had acted out of line. It just wasn't in his nature to not tell the truth.

"How did it break?" That was another unanswered question that nagged at Jeff's mind. The wires were supposed to be sealed away under the console, where nothing could touch them that would possibly have enough force to break them. "Is there a static build-up in the console box?"

"Uh, I don't know," was the quick reply, "but I think I can fix it." There was a pause. "Uh, yeah Dad, I can fix it. Later. After the rescue sometime. When I have time."

Jeff looked back at Virgil and the two of them traded curious and concerned glances. It was now quite obvious to them both that John was acting strangely, and Jeff was almost certain that his second eldest son was hiding something from him.

"But you guys had better get going." John's voice was suddenly business like. "The fire's moving in pretty fast, and it looks like you're going to need Two to pull some people out."

Business came first, Jeff thought as he and Virgil prepared to call the others, but afterwards he was going to have a long talk with his son and find out what was going on up on the space station.

"Thank-you, John. We're on our way."

* * *

Thankfully, the fire was not a demanding one, and John was not held to the computer terminal for the entire time. In between giving orders to his father and brothers he had plenty of moments to trot back to the washroom to check his hair. From what he could see under the towel, the hair did indeed appear to be turning a lighter colour. He had no idea how long to leave it on, but he suspected that it would need at least an hour for it fully work. It had only been half that time, so he still had at least forty-five minutes – to include the time needed to shower the peroxide out – to waste. 

He felt more than horrible about lying to his own father about the incident, but he had not been able to bring himself to tell the older Tracy what was going own. The longer that John sat with his head in the towel, the more he began to realize what a bad idea it had been in the first place. The embarrassment grew exponentially every time one of his family called in over the radio asking for details or advice about the weather conditions.

Another beep of the transmitter shook John from his contemplation. Reaching a hand over to flip the switch, he replied, "John here."

The strong voice of his father came through the speakers. "John, we're about finished here, but Scott and Virgil are going to run One and Two back over the fire area and see if they can douse the blaze with the fire retardant."

"Is that safe?"

"It's biodegradable," Jeff assured him, "so it should be all right. We need you to give second by second heat readings to us, though, to make sure that we don't miss any spots. We don't have the manpower to monitor the readings at the same time as flying. I'm busy trying to deal with some injured folk here in the cargo bay, or I'd do it myself."

That was definitely not good, John thought in dismay. "Uh, Dad . . ." he trailed off when he realized that he had no excuse to get out of it. Nothing was more important than securing the rescue area, and insuring the safety of those who were injured. His own personal plans came in second. "Sure thing."

The first three passes over the area went as planned. John kept a close eye on the radiation index and warned Scott whenever Virgil missed a hot spot on the ground. Methodically, patch by patch, they worked their way across the fire-stricken region, slowly pushing the blaze back to a small but flaming ring of trees only a few hectares across.

It was at that moment, as he was busy reading data to Scott, that John suddenly noticed the itch that was creeping its way onto his scalp. It began as nothing more than an annoyance, but as it grew worse and worse John realized what was going on. He tried to shove it to the back of his mind, knowing how important the data was, but it eventually grew so bad that he could ignore it no longer for fear of burning his scalp.

"Chemical burns," he muttered, then shaking his head in dismay when he realized that he had actually said it out loud.

"Huh?" Scott's voice came over the receiver. "No, it was fire burns John. Remember? Dad's treating the people in the Thunderbird Two bay."

The pain was becoming more than an annoyance. He tried to concentrate on the data points, but the computer-generated images began to swim and jump in his vision. "Scott, is there burn cream up here?"

"John, what are you talking about? I need that data point!"

There was cream, he remembered, in the cabinet above the sink. But he had to stay and give the data points – there was no way that he was going to leave his position. He couldn't just abandon his job in the middle of a rescue situation. It would be a serious breach of protocol, an absolute betrayal of his post. Besides, the bleach couldn't be finished yet - it couldn't have worked so fast.

A sudden and searing pain across his skull convinced him otherwise. "Scott!" He yelped, "I'm programming Five to give you the data points automatically!"

"John, where are you-"

"I'll be right back!" The words had barely left his mouth when John, teeth clenched in pain and anger, jumped from his chair, ran as fast as he could to the washroom, tore the towel and bag from his head, and jumped in the shower.

Ignoring the fact that he still wore all of his clothing, John turned the shower onto full blast, grabbed a clean towel from the rack outside the water-contained area, and tried desperately to wash the peroxide from his hair. The basic solution ran down his scalp and onto his face, and even in its diluted form it stung and burned at all the points on his skin where he had nicked himself shaving. He ignored those sensations, instead focusing on eliminating the slowly diminishing throb from the top of his head. Gradually, bit by bit, the burning sensation turned to a sting, then to an itch, and finally to an irritated sensation that he knew would likely not go away for several days at least.

John flipped the water off, threw the towel down at his feet, then looked down at himself and took in all that he had done. He was soaking wet in the only clean uniform that he had left up on the station. His head had likely suffered first degree burns from the diluted base. Worst of all, he was feeling foolish enough to sink down onto the floor in an attempt to follow the water and peroxide down the shower drain.

"I am such an idiot," John moaned, trying to figure out what the heck he was going to do. He had to get back to the console as soon as possible, but he had no intentions of dripping water all over the command centre and the Thunderbird Five mainframe. The clothes had to go.

As quick as he could, John began to strip out of his uniform, first tearing off the jump suit – which was clinging uncomfortably to his skin – and then the sleeveless shirt that he wore under the suit. Finally, standing stark naked save for his boxers, John grabbed a second towel and tied it around his waist. There was no way that he was walking around naked, even if no one could see him and there was no chance of his father ever fixing the video link from the ground.

Remembering his hair – the cause of the entire episode – John grabbed the final towel from the rack and set to drying his hair. It felt suspiciously dry and stiff in his hands, and he wondered how much damage he had done to it. Virgil had always complained about how hair dye destroyed a person's locks, and John didn't doubt that he had done some serious damage to his own mop.

Walking over to the sink, his hair carefully done up in a turban, John opened the cabinet and grabbed a long thin bottle of burn ointment. A smile tugged at his lips, as he remembered the time that Gordon had nearly given himself serious burns on the beach and had subsequently borrowed John's cream to soothe the stinging sensation.

He was thankful that his father had insisted on sending the cream up to the station, in the rare instance that he might burn himself in some electrical explosion or accident.

"Bet he never thought of this," John sighed in resignation. He was past the point of being embarrassed and fully prepared to begin laughing at his own stupidity at any moment. "Why I do these things to myself . . ." Reaching up to pull off the towel, he found that he could not bring himself to actually remove the cloth. A part of him was terrified to see what his scalp looked like – the other part of him was sure that he had gone bald from the experience.

"Strength, tenacity," he muttered, trying to instil in himself some form of courage. "Bravery!" With a flourish, he whipped the towel from his head, flung it in the direction of the shower, and stared at his own face in the mirror.

A sudden and glaring memory slammed back into John's mind; the image of the rock star, his hair nearly white from dye, combed back in a very rock-star like gesture.

The exact same image greeted him from the mirror. Stark platinum locks nearly glowed in the soft lights of the station, sticking up and out at odd angles, driven stiff from the peroxide treatment that had apparently been applied for more than the required duration.

Unable to form words in his mind for the shock, John simply stared at his own shocked expression in the mirror, gazing at the shining mop on his head that was such a completely rock-star like colour.

"I can't believe this," he finally moaned, the image in the mirror blinking its eyes and furrowing its brows in an exact replication of his its real life counterpart. He close one eye, hoping that the colour might appear to be less dramatic that way, only to discover that it was still there in all of its peroxide glory. "Why did I ever want to do this?"

John's mouth opened and closed several more times, but he could not find anything else to say that adequately described the situation. Shock was a severe understatement. Denial was a severe understatement. In fact, everything in the room at the moment was a severe understatement save for the hair itself! It eventually dawned upon him that there was nothing that he could do save, except to apply the cream to his scalp, comb out the hair as best as he could, and go back to his position at the command centre.

Numbly, the once again blond astronomer squeezed the entire tube of cream onto his hand, rubbed it up a bit, and ran his hands along the base of his hair, trying hard to get more of the medication on the skin rather than the hair. The burn didn't seem to be too bad, given that his hair wasn't falling out, and he hoped that he hadn't done any permanent damage to his skin or the follicles. The last thing that he wanted to do was go bald. He was way too young to even dream of going bald.

"Don't even start," John groaned at himself, "that's what got you in trouble the first time." It wasn't as if he needed the reminder, but speaking out loud to himself made him feel as though he weren't directly related to the person responsible for the atrocity. He should have listened to the part of his mind that spoke sense, the part that was now yelling 'I told you so' at the top of its lungs.

The cream was already at work, for John could feel the pain slowly fading away from his head to be replaced by a cold sensation that was a characteristic of Brains' sunburn cream. He was thankful that the engineer had managed to develop something so potent in the first place, and he wondered if Brains had ever envisioned it being used for something as ridiculous as hair dye burns.

John took another look in the mirror, and a snort of amusement finally escaped his lips. The feeling was hard to subdue, and soon he was laughing uncontrollably at the suave and utterly ridiculous looking man in the glass. He couldn't believe that he had done that to himself. It seemed completely and utterly unfathomable, yet there he was, platinum locks and all, sniggering up a riot in front of the washroom sink.

"I'd better go help Scott," he finally sighed to the image in the mirror, raising a weary hand in a rude one fingered salute. He was beyond acting dignified, and considering that with his new hair he looked a great deal like a young punk . . . "I will deal with you later."

* * *

No sooner did John get back to the command center, having donned a dirty and unwashed uniform, then he realized how much of a mistake he had really made. The irritated voices of Scott and Virgil chirped over and over from the comm system, demanding to know why he had left the station. 

"John, are you all right? What are you doing up there?"

"It's no good, Virgil. He must be out of the room."

Regret immediately panging in his heart, John moved to the station and prepared to re-initiate communications with the ships. His finger stopped half an inch above the transmitter switch, a part of him demanding that he first make full amends with his brothers in the easiest manner possible.

He glanced briefly at the photograph of his mother that he kept on the workstation, wondering what she thought of her son's obvious stupidity. "What d'you think, Mom? Think they'll flip?" The answer was, of course, highly rhetorical. But any reason to delay the coming revelation was a welcome distraction for the astronomer.

"And so he walked forward to his doom." With a long and drawn out sigh, John bent down and looked inside the communications box, whose panel still rested askew on the ground. He poked his head in, along with a spare hand, and fished around for the cable. Somehow or other it had fallen to the very bottom of the compartment, lost amongst a hundred other cords that were exactly the same colour and composition.

Growing more frustrated with every swipe, he muttered, "Come on you sucker, where are you?" and gave one final swat with his hand. The fallacy of his movement was immediately obvious in the sharp and absolutely distinct snap of a fibre optic wire. John's eyes went wide at the noise, and he immediately drew his hand out of the case for fear of breaking something else. The irritation that had been building in his mind, more frustration at himself than at the counsel, immediately vanished and was replaced with an impending feeling of shock.

"Oh," he moaned, spying the plug-in that had had its cord broken. "This is not fair."

He didn't say out loud that he _had_ brought the entire episode on himself. Over the years John had had enough experience with emotional outbreaks to know what results they generally had, and he was quite aware that his own temper and curiosity had run away from him and were now causing him a great deal of grief.

Over the radio, Scott and Virgil continued to call for Thunderbird Five and its space monitor.

All of the emotions in John's mind slowly drained, to be replaced with a growing tiredness that had him wondering why he had bothered to crawl out of bed that morning. Slapping his arms over the edge of the console, he dragged himself to a kneeling position, just high enough that he could stare into the glittering eyes of Lucy Tracy.

It didn't take much imagination to take her expression and fit it to one of the many memories that John had of her. He could see her eyebrows narrowing in amusement, the corner of her lip turning up as she secretly laughed at her children's antics.

"I've never learned, have I?" The picture smiled back at him. "You'd have thought I would've had enough the day that I went to that stupid high school party." John let his head fall onto the desk. A thought suddenly dawned on him, sending another sigh and another wave of guilt through his body.

It wouldn't be long before Thunderbird Three was docking at the station, and his family rushed in to see if he were okay. At that point he'd have a rather long and embarrassing story to tell them, one that had started with a few strands of brown hair.

"Next time," John decided with a touch of resignation in his voice, "I'll just shave my head and save the trouble. End of story."

* * *

Jeff Tracy hardly took notice of the lift-off from Tracy Island, leaving the task of monitoring the lift-off to Scott and Virgil, both of which had taken the ship on at least one trip up to Thunderbird Five. The older man's mind was already up in space, walking around the dimly lit corridors of the space station in search of his son. He had been listening to the transmissions when John had left, and had not been able to remove from his mind a feeling of fear for his son. He had suspected that something had been amiss when John had first called down to the island, and he hoped that nothing serious had happened. John had always had a tendency of understating things and was the type of person to try and stop an out of control explosion with his bare hands instead of calling for help. 

Only, with the audio also down, there was no way for him to call. That bothered Jeff, for there was no explanation at all for the sudden disappearance of the audio channel. The computer had simply declared 'Audio Access Denied' as it had with the video connection and had ceased to transmit any more data of that type. What was funny was how computer access was not hindered, for Jeff had easily been able to tap into the Thunderbird Five mainframe.

There was nothing wrong with the station according to the computers, save for the sudden and complete cessation of all vital communications. From a distance, though Thunderbird Three was still five minutes away, it appeared to be all in one piece. The sensors showed the hull to be at one hundred percent, and there was no sign of any debris floating around the main ring.

_What are you doing up there? _Jeff thought as the worry in his chest grew.

"We're approaching Thunderbird Five." Scott's steady words interrupted his father's thoughts. "All systems appear to be green. Docking systems are responding, lock on in two minutes."

"'Bout time," Virgil sighed from the other control console. "I don't care if we have artificial gravity. I'm just not all for this hanging around a hundred miles above the Earth stuff."

"Me neither," Scott admitted, much to Jeff's amusement for he had always thought his son to be the type to embrace any type of thrill ride. "I'd rather be in a plane somewhere on the planet. At least there you can see stuff."

"It's so black up here," Virgil agreed, turning his head upward so that he could see out of the main view port.

Jeff smiled, finding a sole bit of humour in his son's words. For all of their bravery and tenacity, neither of them could truly appreciate what Jeff and John both loved. The stars, though brighter than at any moment on Earth, would be no more than twinkling points of light to the uninitiated eye. Though Jeff was an engineer by trade as well as a trained pilot through the astronaut corps, he too had always had a fascination with the constellations since his earliest years. More than anything, the words were a welcome distraction from the two minutes of wait until the docking began.

"You boys wouldn't understand," he finally put it, much to the dismay of his sons.

"What's there to get? It's black and empty, to put it bluntly." Virgil shook his head. "When I painted John that picture, it had so much colour and life to it. I don't see that when I look out the window right now. I mean, it's there somewhere, but it's not easy to find."

"It's there for some of us," Jeff replied, trying to put into words what he felt. "Sometimes the most amazing things in the world can't be seen, Virgil. You have to be patient, use more than your eyes to discover what's out there. It's more than just laying paint to paper."

Virgil thought for a moment, then nodded slowly, a look of understanding coming to his eyes. "You have to use your imagination or a more indirect method."

"It's hard to reproduce the exact image that an artist sees in his mind." Jeff smiled, knowing Virgil would understand the analogy. "Or maybe a piece of music. To those who don't understand it, it's just a paper with a bunch of black dots on it. But to the pianist, it's something wondrous that he can share with others."

Those words obviously hit home with both Virgil and Scott, for they both nodded and took another glance at the window. "But why are the stars so bright in pictures?" Scott finally asked in exasperation.

Snorting in amusement, Virgil turned to give his brother an incredulous expression. "Have you ever heard of astral photography?"

Scott shook his head, perplexed.

"That's amazing. I thought you knew everything."

Covering up the laugh that was trying to escape his mouth, Jeff gave Virgil a stern look and commented, "Virgil, Scott doesn't know everything." He didn't bother to mention that Scott had a tendency to _act _like he knew everything, as it wasn't in his place as a parent to make a comment like that. He'd let the other boys heckle Scott for him.

"Of course not," Virgil snorted, his tone teasing but lacking no degree of warmth. "Why would I ever have had that idea?"

Scott had the decency to turn a nice shade of red. "I never took astronomy."

"Don't worry," Virgil finished, "I'm sure if you had that you would have had excellent grades in it too."

"Docking sequence initiation in ten seconds," chimed the computer.

"This is it, boys," Jeff snapped, suddenly all business and wanting none of the idle chit-chat that had permeated the cockpit during the wait. "How are systems?"

"Responding," Virgil said, keeping his eyes on the read-outs. "Automatic docking is taking control." The ship hummed as the engines cued up on their own, and the computer onboard the space station guided the rocket in for a computer controlled lock-on. "Lock-on in five, four, three, two, one."

A large shudder went through Thunderbird Three as the massive grappling arm reached out from its side and took hold of the Thunderbird Five airlock. The lunge shook Jeff in his seat, but years of space experience allowed him a degree of calmness that was rarely found in any man. He sat, staring forward in complete and absolute concentration, listening to the sounds of the docking, checking in his mind that the procedure was happening correctly.

Finally satisfied when the computer added, "Docking complete", Jeff unstrapped himself and rushed to the back of the ship where the spacesuits were kept. Scott and Virgil followed closely behind him, their footsteps echoing on the metal panels of the interior gangway. The older man quickly cued the airlock sequence once they all stood in the room, and the hatch closed with a solid thud. "Computer says there's air," Virgil said, but he took an oxygen mask all the same. "Don't know what to expect."

"Expect the worst," Jeff answered quietly, taking his own mask and passing a third one to Scott. "He could be fine, he could be-" The words caught in Jeff's throat, and he was unable to say them.

The young men understood, however, and Virgil moved to the control panel of the airlock. "Initiating airlock sequence." For a moment there was only silence. Then a hiss reverberated through the room as air pressure equalised between the two ships, and the door linking Thunderbird Three and Five slowly lifted open.

The three men stepped into the entrance corridor to the space station, gazing around at the bland steel walls that were shadowed with dull orange lighting. The corridor was absolutely still, and no noise but the sound of the breathing masks echoed against the walls. The harder that Jeff listened, however, the more subtle noises he could hear.

Alerted to the presence of an atmosphere, the older Tracy slowly slipped off his oxygen mask and let it hang down onto his chest. "I think we're okay, boys." He took one last glance about the hatchway, then slowly began to make his way down the corridor.

Steel girder after steel girder passed overhead, as the trio slowly left the docking platform and entered into the main habitation complex. The corridor blossomed out into a set of left and right passageways, both part of a large ring that encircled the interior living quarters. The outer ring contained both the command centre and most of the scientific equipment. The inner sphere, shielded with strong lead based walls and a type of magnetic field, were meant to not only be a living area, but also a place of sanctuary in the case of a bad solar storm or other spatial disaster.

"What happened here?" Jeff muttered as the three finally entered the command center. He looked about the room, taking in the computer consoles and monitors, until his gaze finally fell on an open side port located directly next to the main windows. The man quickly made his way to the hatch and knelt down beside the hastily removed metal door. "He must have tried to fix it . . ." His fingers found a broken fibre optic cable, his mind immediately making the connection. "Audio cable is out. No wonder he couldn't call."

"What the hell?" Looking over Jeff's shoulder, Virgil's eyes were narrowed in what appeared to be dismay. "That cable's been snapped."

The thought had definitely crossed Jeff's mind, but he had dismissed it initially because it made very little sense. There was no reason for John to have broken the cable himself, unless it had been an accident. "Maybe he snapped it while trying to fix the video output."

Wordlessly, Virgil reached over Jeff's shoulder into the console and withdrew in his fingers another cable. He held it in front of his father's face and turned it over several times as if to make a point. Any of the other Tracy children likely would have made a snappy remark about the entire incident. Virgil, however, simply shrugged and plugged the cable back into the socket where it had once rested.

Jeff shook his head, wondering for the millionth time that day what the hell was going on with his second eldest son. "It was unplugged. He unplugged it."

"It won't take long to fix the other one," said Virgil calmly. "He probably could have done it in his sleep if he actually had the cables up here."

"I'd forgotten about that. Why didn't he remind me?"

Before Virgil could even respond to the comment, Scott came barrelling into the room at full speed, panic written across his face. "Fire!" He gasped, resting a hand on his knee to give himself balance. "There's smoke down in the habitation sphere!"

Full-fledged fear rose in Jeff's chest, and he jumped up from his kneeling position and moved to join Scott where he stood. "Is it bad?"

"I don't know," the young man sighed, shaking his head in dismay. "I just saw it and ran. Is there a fire extinguisher around here?"

He needn't have asked, for Virgil had already located the one kept beside the command console and was now holding it firmly in his hands. "Sure is. Lead the way."

As the three anxiously – and more quickly than Jeff would have preferred – made their way once again down the curving corridors of the space station, a strange and oddly familiar sensation began to tickle Jeff's nose. He turned his head up slightly, gave a long sniff, then turned to Virgil in confusion. "Do you smell something?"

"Other than smoke?" Virgil shrugged, and he too took a long sniff. His nose crinkled up, and he gave his father a confused look. "It smells like toast!" He sniffed again, then shook his head, his eyes suddenly growing wide. "Geeze, I know I've smelled that before. Where was it?"

"John!" Scott shouted from up front, having finally arrived at the doorway to the makeshift kitchen room. Jeff and Virgil hurried up behind him and peered over the young man's broad shoulders into a billowing cloud of smoke. Virgil held the fire extinguisher at the ready, just in case there was a need to stifle any sort of blaze.

There was no need, Jeff saw immediately, for there, standing in front of the grill was John Tracy, a cooking apron wrapped about his waist and a smoking plate of grilled cheese sandwiches in his hands. The young man waved a hand in front of his face to clear the air, then looked over at his family with watering blue eyes. His expression was a mixture of emotions; on one side he was obviously thrilled to see his family in the flesh. But the guilty smile that spread across his lips gave away any charade that he might have been trying to uphold.

"I promised you a while back that I'd have lunch for you sometime," John finally said sheepishly. "Sorry about the smoke, I think I got a little too much oil in the pan."

"You always did at home," Virgil replied in a vaguely shocked tone. "Did we ever eat those things when they weren't as black and hard as dog crud?"

Jeff paid little attention to the entire exchange, for his eyes had been drawn to an oddly bright and glowing substance that seemed to be on top of John's head. He suddenly realised with a start that it was the young man's hair, for it had miraculously become an incredible platinum colour overnight. What was more ridiculous than anything was that John looked amazingly similar to a singer that Jeff had grown up with during his teenage years.

"John, what happened?" Jeff finally spit out, bringing all other conversation to a halt. The mental connection between the hair and the communications blackout was beginning to fall into place, but he wanted to hear John himself speak the words. From the corner of his eye, Jeff could see Virgil and Scott also noticing the white locks, their expressions turning to incredulity and shock.

The young man fidgeted on his feet uncomfortably, and he absently ran his hand through the mop on his head. His fingers grabbed at a few locks near the front, pinching at them as if testing their integrity. Words tried to escape from his mouth, but he ended up shrugging his shoulders in defeat.

"You look like Billy Idol," Virgil finally managed dryly, shaking his head at his brother's antics. "D'you realize that?"

"Who?" The astronomer's voice was laced with obvious bewilderment.

"He's a singer from the late twentieth century," Jeff added in, mildly impressed despite everything else that Virgil knew who the man was. "Punk rock star. Liked to keep his hair a nice peroxide blond. Like that."

"You didn't dye it, did you? On purpose?" Scott asked suddenly.

The words were not even fully out of his mouth before everyone present knew the answer, based upon the slowly growing line of red that was crossing across John's cheeks. "It's only dyeing if you colour it after," he responded in a somewhat unsure tone, "right?"

Virgil snorted. "What'd you use?"

"Peroxide," John confirmed quietly, the red colour spreading past his cheeks so that it took in his ears.

"Too much by the looks of it." Scott grinned wickedly.

That comment seemed to touch a sensitive spot with the astronomer, for John's eyebrows jumped slightly and he gave Scott an irritated look. "If someone could have found his own damn temperature readings, it wouldn't have turned out this bright."

That explained much, Jeff though wryly. Looking between his three children, all of who seemed to be in varying emotional states, the older man decided that it would be a good time to sit down and eat. "John, why don't we discuss this over some lunch?"

John shrugged at first, then finally sighed and nodded. "Let me find the table. I know it's here somewhere."

* * *

"I still can't believe that he did that," Scott Tracy laughed as he helped his father to unload the last set of containers from Thunderbird Three. The two men, with the help of Virgil and John, had been busy emptying out the cargo hold since they had finished eating. There were still plenty of supplies left to bring up to the station, containing everything from basic necessities to new equipment, and Scott grinned at the thought that John would have little free time in the coming weeks. "It explains much, especially why he was so irritable with the entire Penelope episode. At least he won't be bored anytime soon with all of this stuff here." 

From the other side of a crate, Jeff chuckled back and shook his head. "I can't believe that he did that either. He's never _ever_ struck me as the type of person who'd do something spontaneous like that."

_You weren't at John's one and only high school party_, Scott snickered quietly to himself. He had grown up with John, in many ways partially raised his younger brother, and he had witnessed most of the times that John had given in to a pet peeve or something else that was bothering him. There was the time that he had fallen for Sandra, but there were also more serious moments such as when he had got up and quit NASA on a whim. Scott knew that it had been more than just a whim, but to the rest of the world it had seemed very quick and abrupt.

"He's probably been curious about it for a while," Scott said loudly so that his father could hear him. Without even checking with one another, the pair dropped the crate, walked back to the cargo hold, and began to heave another one into the docking corridor. "He's like that. He'll think about something and stew over it until it really bothers him, then he'll actually do something about that."

"I suppose that's true." The crate landed on the floor with a thud. "He has done that before, hasn't he?"

"Only by the time that he's stewed it over," Scott continued, "he's not thinking logically anymore. Sometimes it lands him in trouble. He's lucky that it didn't with NASA. But it probably was tempting - the hair, I mean. Think about it. Who hasn't wanted to dye their hair? You can't tell me that John's never wanted to do that before."

"I don't care about that. Hair can grow out," Jeff replied briskly, looking down at the crate at his feet. "I'm just thankful that he didn't burn his scalp."

"That the last of 'em?" Virgil's voice echoed from down the hallway. "You guys done?"

"Looks that way," Scott called back, though in truth he wanted to finish his conversation with his father. "Just give us a few minutes to check that we have everything."

"FAB."

Scott stopped what he was doing and directed a confused look down the hallway in Virgil's direction. He had heard a great deal of call signs while working with the air force, but he had never ever heard that combination of letters before. "Eff eh bee? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It's our new call sign. Gordon came up with it."

Scott looked to his father, only to be rewarded with a second confused look. "Virgil, what does it mean?"

"Nothing, really. But we both thought that Lady Penelope sounded so suave when she said it over the phone."

"She phoned! When?"

Unable to hold a grin off his face, Virgil pretended to ignore his brother's exclamation. "Everything was _fabulous_, Scott. It was uncanny. So, Gordon and I talked, and we just had to add a little bit of 'fab' to this poor dreary organization. It gives us a degree of sophistication. At least, that was what we thought."

"She'll kill you if she hears you mocking her."

"Sure, Scott. She loves us, thinks we're fabulous!"

Suddenly not even wanting to know when they had been talking to Penelope over the phone – and banishing from his mind the thought of his mischievous brother Gordon speaking to the woman that he liked - Scott simply laughed and shook his head. "So, are you finished up with the comm system?"

"Just about. John's finishing up the patching, and when he's done I think I'm going to bolt that door securely shut."

Scott turned back to Jeff, was about to begin a plea bargain on behalf of John, only to see his father already smiling and shaking his head.

"Scott, I know what you're going to say, and I think I'm thinking the same thing."

"He's learned his lesson?"

"For the next few months he's going to look like a punk rock star wannabe," Jeff smiled with the faintest trace of teeth. "I think that's more than enough to deter him from shirking off his job ever again."

"I think that's more than enough to convince him never to get out of bed again," Scott smirked, agreeing completely with his father on the matter. Taking a deep breath, Scott looked around and nodded in satisfaction. "I think we're done here."

"Let's say our farewells and head back down then," the older man agreed. "Brains said satellites are showing a bit of a rain shower heading our way, and I don't want to have to fly Three back home in a storm."

"Dad, I think we've already weathered most of it." The young man raised an eyebrow in amusement. "Don't you?"

Nodding, Jeff shrugged and replied, "I guess things are FAB."

"Oh come _on_ Dad, not you too!"

It had a very nice ring to it, though. Scott hated to admit it, but Gordon had been right. There was something fun about spitting out three letters of British nonsense. He never planned on letting Penelope hear it, of course, but that was beside the point.

"Besides, we don't have to tell Penelope." The older man's mischievous grin would have looked more in place on Gordon's face. "She would have both of our heads."

* * *

Night was falling down on the planet. The sun, moving behind the gently curved line of the horizon, was spreading morning on the far side of the world. The south pacific, however, fell into a deep darkness that spread like a blanket across the rolling waters of the ocean. All features disappeared, lost in the black night. Clouds and rainstorms went unseen from far above. 

Smiling contentedly at the sight, John Tracy brought the cup of tea that he was holding to his lips and took a long drink of the soothing liquid. It was funny, when he thought about how his life had changed in the past four months. He had lost a job, gained a dream, lost a parent, gained a life, and seen enough of what lay inside his own soul to decide that he wasn't quite a lost cause after all. The first few weeks had been hard, but he had discovered a strength that he had not been expecting – and yet, some part of him had expected it all along.

_John Tracy,_ he thought humorously, _you are a stubborn man._ Perhaps not quite a man yet, he decided, but his birthday _was_ in three months, and he considered twenty-one a large enough age to garner the title. Yet another part of him insisted that he had earned the title months ago, when he had spent a long morning alone with his mind, finding inside of himself the courage and the tenacity there that had been buried after nearly ten long years of suffering.

He turned his head slightly, and glanced over at the photograph of his mother, lovingly placed right next to the globe of the Earth that he kept at the command console. The woman's eyes were always smiling. She never seemed to wear a frown, though sometimes John didn't have to try hard to imagine the smile becoming a sigh of amusement.

"Long day, huh?" He smiled himself and leaned back in his chair, turning his eyes once again to the gorgeous panorama of stars that lay just past the window. The Earth was truly beautiful, he thought, even more so above than down on the planet. He truly was enjoying his time aboard the station, more so than he had ever dreamed possible.

His mind turned briefly to his father's parting words before the man had returned back down to the planet. He had offered to send someone up to Thunderbird Five every second month, so that John could be able to spend more time with his family back on the island. John had thought about it for a few seconds at most, then had politely declined the offer. There was too much that he loved about the station for him to even want to leave. Sure, it was nice to get back out in the sun, to see the palm trees and the surf and have a swim in the pool.

But it wasn't . . .

It wasn't home. Home was up in space, on the station, where he was surrounded by the stars and was allowed to do something that he truly loved, day after day, month after month-

Year after year, perhaps, if things went well.

Suddenly remembering something, John set the cup down on the console with a chink, and went off to hunt for a certain package that had been left in the docking room. Virgil had told him to wait a while to open it, and while John was obviously suspicious of his brothers' history of pranks, he was sure that Virgil's tone had been sincere enough to suggest an actual gift.

The package was not hard to find. Wrapped in brown packing paper, the lumpy present was kicked to one of the corners of the square room. John collected it happily in his arms, and ran it back to the command centre so he could open it where there was more light.

The paper came off easily, and from the wrapping he pulled forth a wrinkled grey jump-suit that looked very similar to the one that he was wearing, save for some very noticeable differences. The decorative patterns on the outfit suggested an actual uniform, and when John turned over a sleeve and saw the word 'Thunderbirds' written on the side, he couldn't hold back a grin from his face. A pair of gloves was stuck in the sleeves, bearing the number five on both tops.

It was the nametag that caught John's eye, stitched in a simple font on the upper left breast of the outfit. It looked so official, more than anything he had ever worn before did. He grinned, noting how easy it was to satisfy his ego and grant him a tiny feeling of importance.

Shaking his head and marvelling at the work, the astronomer noticed a small piece of paper on the floor that must have fallen from the package while he was opening it. He reached down, picked it up in his hand, and brought it up into the light of the monitor screens.

_Dear John,_

_As you can see, we now have standard issue uniforms for the group. We'll be sending up more with the next batch of supplies but don't feel obligated to just wear this one for the next month. We had a long chat about nametags, and Dad decided that it would be best if we just used the genuine article - there are too many mix-ups when we call you Bill in public. _

_Plus, because we've been having problems blocking just the media television stations, we're going to start letting one station go through so that we're not fuzzing up our own transmissions. Dad's not really happy about it, but it's better than compromising our communications. Besides, so many people see us on the ground that the extra pictures won't do much unless they actually get inside the craft. That's where the new uniforms come in - they makes us look more professional. At least Scott and I think so. I don't know if that's a good thing, because he doesn't need anymore women following him around. You'd think he would have learned the first time!_

_Keep safe, John. We'll be looking out for you._

_Your bro,_

_Virgil_

_PS I hope you don't mind the colour. It's supposed to be gold trimmed, but Dad and I both agree that it turned a kind of dirt brown when we dyed it. Hope that doesn't bother you too much._

John stared at the note for a long moment before he finally realised that it had obviously been written well in advance of the entire hair dyeing incident. It was so ironic, he thought with a loud chuckle, that they had so much faith in him. How could they have known what kind of grief that that particular colour happened to be giving him?

Well, he decided, as he folded the letter and carefully put it in his pocket, brown was just fine with him. He had learned, after all, when to draw the line, and he was drawing the line with colours, hair dye, and vanity.

"Space is black," he laughed out loud, both at himself and at the day in general. "And that's more than good enough for me."

* * *

**A/N 3:** And so ends my sad attempt at humour. What's even more sad is that this chapter wasn't originally written to be humorous, but it went in that direction because John's ability to get himself in trouble is funny to most of us. It's also the reason that I myself haven't tried to dye my hair yet. ;) A huge round of thanks goes to Ariel D for beta reading this chapter! I don't know what I'd do without your advice. :) (But Vulcans can make their eyebrows dance!) 

Reviewers!

**Ariel D** - No thesaurus needed. ;) And Chapter 25 is for everyone out there who can relate just a bit too much to what John goes through! lol  
**Barb from Utah** - Hey, no problem! It's taking me a while to edit these chapters, so we're even. :) (grins) Well, whatever John did to Scott in the last chapter he got back in this one ten times over. John and Gordon get along? Definitely. Keep an eye out for that in later chapters.  
**Marblez** - Thank you! I did manage to finish the story, finally. (sighs in relief) It's about a young girl who was a bully as a child and now suffers from PTSS because the girl she teased committed suicide. I seem to like writing disturbed characters . . .  
**Math Girl** - She sure does! Lol I'm really really glad to hear that I've captured young men reasonably well. Being a young woman with little experience dealing with young men means that I'm writing solely based upon general human emotions. ;)  
**Clairie** - Weeeelll, not Gordon, no. ;) It's more John's philosophy of 1) "If I ignore a problem it'll go away", 2) "It's not going away! I'll have to fix it!", 3) "I can't believe I did that. Maybe if I forget about what I did it'll go away too.", and 4) "Screw it. I'm going to go back to bed/make my lunch/pretend I'm a rock." that gets him in trouble. ;)  
**Ms. Imagine** - My thoughts exactly. :) Scott is a wonderful, responsible, and take-charge young man who definitely has faults of his own. I wanted to set up why he's showing off for Penny in the movie, and to show how he can get pumped up and over excited about certain things (which explains him accidentally hurting Alan's feelings in the movie dinner scene).  
**Antilles** - Well, in Chapter 22 Penny and Scott were teasing each other because they thought they'd never be able to get involved with each other. But now that Penny has found out who he is, they have to figure out what they actually want. Scott doesn't really find out until the end of this chapter, and Penny can be enough of a flirt sometimes that we'll have to see how serious she is about Scott. ;)  
**Andrewjameswilliams** - Yeah, poor John is now stuck with the 'puke brown' uniform (though I refrained from calling them that in the story) because Virgil and Jeff are too lazy to hunt down some proper gold trim! Lol  
**Assena** - I need to harness some of Penny's wit for myself. ;) I find myself in Scott's position way too often when it comes to dealing with people, and I'm not even talking about romantic situations! Lol

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Watch out for next chapter, entitled "Diamonds to Ashes", where a mining disaster in Malaysia changes the lives of four individuals forever. Until then, FAB all! 


	26. Diamonds to Ashes

_Dislcaimer: Thunderbirds is the property of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, as well as Carlton and Universal. No profit is intended to be made from this story; it is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended, and none should be inferred. All original characters are the property of the author. This story should not be used or copied without the expressed written consent of the author._

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**A/N:**I will apologize before-hand for the atrocious nature of my Malay. Internet translators are not what they should be, so although the words are correct I have no idea if the sentences make sense gramatically.

* * *

**Diamonds to Ashes  
****Septemeber 2018**

Night was beginning to fall on the Eastern half of the world, gradually transforming the vast continents and small island communities into glistening pockets of civilization. The delicate amber glow of the sun slowly vanished behind a line of tropical trees, bathing a large portion of the deep Malaysian jungle in twilight. As the daylight faded, the creatures of the evening began to awake, crawling forth from their burrows to taste the wind of another night.

Amongst the miles of trees and natural foliage, another creature slowly awakened from its slumber. Vast metallic arms rose in the air, while huge spotlights flared to life and bathed the darkness of the jungle in an intense neon glow. The Deforester groaned forward on metal treads, tearing down trees, grinding the wood to a pulp that it kept in the back of its hopper. Behind it followed a parade of workers, scraping at the ground with shovels in order to clear it completely for the digging that was soon to begin.

High up in the observation tower situated in the midst of the action, Kyrano Belagant could see clearly the entire operation as it unfolded. Though the forestry was taking place nearly a mile from the main mine pit and shaft, it was easily visible from such a height. The jungle was falling according to schedule, and the second pit would be dug as soon as the rain that had plagued the island passed. A subtle flinch ran across his face every time a tree fell to the Deforester, for as much as the clear-cutting was necessary, it pained Kyrano to see the natural habitat of the jungle stripped away for the sake of man.

Soon, though, the trees would be gone, and work could begin on the newest expansion of the Belagant Diamond mine. If things went as planned, the new tunnels would be dug in no more than a years time, and Kyrano would know for certain whether his brother's hunches about the diamonds were correct.

"Dear brother, is something the matter?"

Kyrano looked up at the words, spoken with a characteristic dryness that only his brother could manage in their common language of Malay. "Trangh, I find it strange that you find the need to ask me such a question."

The other man arched a dark eyebrow and shrugged. "I only ask because I worry, Kyrano. I wouldn't want you to suffer in silence."

The words were hollow in so many ways, for Kyrano had seen how much compassion his brother was truly capable of. It had been he who had suggested bulldozing the jungle, something that Kyrano both despised and was saddened by. Trangh obviously knew well enough what was troubling his brother, and the fact that he had even brought the topic up sharpened in Kyrano's mind how much their relationship had become strained of late.

Shaking his head slightly, Kyrano sighed and turned back to look out the window. Amongst the glow of the spotlights and the fading sun, he could see his own expression gazing back at him in the glass. The Malaysian skin tones inherit of his people, the dark hair that was shaved from the top of his head to fight off the heat, the piercing eyes that frightened him somewhat when he looked into them from a distance . . .

He was not that much different from his brother, Kyrano noted, in terms of appearance. Trangh, almost eight years his elder, shared the same eyes, the same hair, and though their faces were different – a discrepancy brought about by being only half-brothers – they were similar enough that there was no doubt that they were related. But that was where the similarities began and ended, for there was truly nothing else to link the two together except the bondage of blood.

Knowing that his brother was eyeing the back of his head, Kyrano intentionally kept his face to the window when he spoke. "I am worried about the terrain. If we are reckless with the cutting, the ground will become unstable. It is already softened from the rains, and I fear that we may encounter difficulties when digging. If we disturb too much bedrock we may risk loosing the main pit itself."

The sharp noise of Trangh's laughter dug at Kyrano's nerves. "There is nothing to fear. The crews are proceeding only as we have instructed."

_Only as you have instructed._ "Then I believe we have made a mistake."

"No! There is no mistake!"

Trangh's voice hinted at more than mere irritation. Indeed, Kyrano thought sadly, his brother had become more and more obsessed as the new diamonds had become more and more within reach. The trend worried the younger man, for he had on several occasions seen Trangh display true anger towards the workers for not working fast enough, and he feared that his brother would eventually do something that he would regret.

"If we lose the mine," Kyrano explained calmly, "then we will lose everything. What is a few weeks compared to our entire fortune?"

"I will not let this slip through my fingers!" The other man banged his fist violently against a nearby table, sending pencils and land schematics scattering about. "This venture will proceed as planned, without interruption. _If_ the ground shows signs of weakening, then, only then, will I consider halting the project."

It was a fool's errand to object, Kyrano thought, just as the project was a fool's errand itself. There was no arguing with Trangh when he was angry. "Yes, brother."

There was just no use.

* * *

"You let him push you around too much," scolded Onaha Belagant, waving a spoon at her husband as she went about preparing the family meal. The woman's large eyes glared at Kyrano, accusing him even when her voice did not. She was a strong woman, both in body and in mind, something that the soft-spoken Kyrano both appreciated and admired tremendously. "Does Trangh think he owns the operation himself? He had better not, or one of these days I will have to deal with him myself."

"Onaha, there is not much to be done." Kyrano sighed wearily and wrapped his arms around his wife's broad shoulders. "Trangh is the foreman, and he has the final say for all projects at the mine. I sometimes wish that I could turn this entire organisation into the law, but then what would happen to us?"

"We would manage."

"With what, Onaha? With what? Trangh gives us food. I give him work. You and Tin-Tin mean more to me than my morality. I could not live if I knew the two of you were suffering."

There was also a very important underlying issue –only Kyrano and Onaha knew that Kyrano was related to Trangh. Onaha generally never said anything about it, never went so far as to even mention the possibility remotely. That was much to Kyrano's satisfaction, for in many regards he wished that he were not related to Trangh at all. To anyone else involved, the two Belagant men were simply related by a distant bloodline, and nothing more. Even Tintin was unaware of the relation, assuming instead that Trangh was simply her father's co-worker and nothing more.

This time, however . . .

"And you are the scientist," Onaha insisted, though in a much softer tone. "You are his brother. Does that mean nothing to him? Does that mean nothing to _you_? What do you think, Kyrano? What does your mind tell you?"

"The jungle floor is weak. If too many of the trees are ripped up, the roots will die and the soil will lose its strength. I am truly worried that, with the rain, the ground will break if we try to dig. I do not think the ground here is truly suitable for a mine to begin with. It is a living death trap. I do not even know if this second pit is necessary. The main mine is showing only moderate profit, but Trangh seems convinced that we will find more if we relocate a mile to the east."

"Could he be correct?"

"There is no evidence of another kinderlite pipe in the area that he has begun to dig. The pipe that we have already is weak at best, and it is very likely that it is the only vein in the region carrying any form of diamonds."

"The nearby mountains, what about them?"

"This _is_ the vein from the mountains. It has shifted over time."

Onaha nodded slowly, then replied, as if it was obvious, "Then you must tell him. He is your brother, Kyrano. He will listen to you!"

Those words were hollow comfort to Kyrano. He had tried so many times to tell Trangh, and so many times Trangh had simply shrugged it off and ignored his advice. But it was obvious from the diagrams and the radar readings that the ground all around the mining complex was beginning to weaken. The fault lines were everywhere, intersecting through the shafts and even under the main complex itself.

There was not simply a danger to the workers, but to all that kept residence in the area. The families of the workers were also at risk. Illegal workers, like himself, Kyrano thought sadly, many whom were trying to earn enough money to support their own families. Families that they cared about; families that they would do anything to protect.

But to act without his brother's consent, to bring the law of the land down upon the mine, would bring grief for more than just Trangh. It would bring persecution to those very men and women whose lives he feared for, those people who, along with him, worked daily for a means to survive. Those people, like him, who were slaved to the mine, who willingly risked the lives of their families - knowingly, much of the time - in order to allow them to live in the first place. It would bring disaster to them just as surely as a cave-in would.

How could he deny them the choice that they had made? How could he deny his _own _family the right to live, even if death was poised to fall from above, like a rock precariously balanced on a wood beam? No, to live for a moment was far better than not living at all. And in the small home that he and the other workers had carved from rock and earth, they were indeed very alive.

In a world that had wiped itself clean of the memory of their existence, they had nothing else. Though the circumstances that had brought Kyrano and his family to the mine differed from the stories of the other workers, they all shared one common connection: they were trapped by the earth, by their inability to find money elsewhere. They would work there, in the dark depths of the mine; and in the future, whether near or far, they would die there as well. This life was their blessing and their curse.

And yet, if the mine was truly in danger of collapse . . .

"Be ready," he finally whispered into his wife's ear, stroking her cheek gently with the back of his hand.

When Onaha finally spoke, it was with a great deal of doubt in her voice. "For what, Kyrano? I cannot prepare unless I know what to prepare for."

"Be ready to leave." He glanced down briefly at the ground, at the cracks created in the dirt floored kitchen by the running rainwater, and shuddered. "There may come a time when we have to run."

If it came down to that, if it looked as though the forest floor would fall away, then he could act; at that point, there would no longer be a mine to worry about. At that point the would only be concerned with the present, not with the future. For the moment, however, he could only sit and wait. It was the waiting, Kyrano thought, which was the hardest. It could be weeks or even months before anything happened. But if he knew Trangh as well as he thought he did, then the digging would begin before any exploratory work was even carried out in the new area.

Three months was all he gave it. Three months wait, then the digging, then he would find out whether he or his brother was correct.

* * *

**December 2018**

Taking a second look just to be sure, Kyrano confirmed his worst fears in his mind; the ground beneath the mine was becoming less stable by the minute. Another downpour of rain had closed down operations on the surface of the second pit, but digging still continued beneath the ground. The combination of that and the excess surface water was slowly shifting the bedrock, causing small tremors that were just noticeable on the seismograph scale. Though the digging had been proceeding for two weeks after nearly a four-month delay from the initial deforesting, the rock had shown no signs of becoming unstable before.

Lifting the grid paper in his hand, Kyrano carefully and painstakingly plotted the points of the tremors on the graph. What he saw did not surprise him.

It terrified him.

His initial thoughts were to run to his brother and tell him, but some inexplicable sense stopped him cold when he was halfway to the door. Instead, he turned back, sat down at the desk in his office, and picked up the phone.

Trangh would not listen, that much was fact, until the ground gave way directly below his feet. He was so blinded by the allurement of the diamonds that he cared no more for his own life than he did for the lives of his workers. But unlike his brother, Kyrano did care for those lives of those who worked with him, and he realised that it was up to him to avoid the situation.

In little under an hour, as far as he could tell, the entire structure of the main mines would collapse. The entire main pit would fall into the shafts, killing the men on the surface and burying the men below. The secondary pit, closed down because of the rain, was already showing signs of collapsing, as were the corridors connecting it and the main shaft. It would likely take at least an hour to simply evacuate the more remote tunnels near the new digging, but if he could gather the men into the main underground complex . . .

They might have a fighting chance.

The phone rang once in his ear, then twice, until a voice finally answered.

"Main complex. Manager speaking."

"This is Kyrano," he whispered, looking about to see if his brother had somehow entered the room. "Listen very carefully to what I have to say. The lives of every man under your control will depend on it."

* * *

Onaha knew what to do as soon as the warning siren began to blare. Dropping the pot of food that she carried in her arms, she ran to the single bedroom that the family shared, with the intent of waking her daughter. The young girl, her eyes closed, slumbered peacefully on her parent's bed, completely unaware of the danger around her.

"Tin-Tin!" Shaking the child on the shoulder, Onaha prayed that her daughter would wake soon and that they could be on their way. "Tin-Tin, child, wake up!"

"Mom?" A bleary eye poked open, revealing large brown pupils. The girl of nearly thirteen years sat up suddenly. "What's happening?"

"Gather your things," Onaha urged, taking no time to help her daughter off the bed. Instead, she made haste to pack as many things as she could in a small suitcase, throwing in enough clothing and garments to see the family safely to the nearest port city. There was food already packed in the family jeep, a luxury that the Belagants were afforded simply because of their position in the mining hierarchy. "We must leave for the city immediately."

Tin-Tin gave a quiet yawn and stretched her arms. "Where's Dad?"

"Hurry!" The older woman scolded, finally taking time out to grab her daughter and pull her to her feet. "Take only what you need."

The danger of the situation seemed to finally sink in, for the girl's face became serious and she immediately ran to her corner of the room to gather her things. "When are we leaving?"

"As soon as we can."

"What happened?"

Thinking it best to tell her daughter, who had always been such a strong-hearted girl, Onaha sighed and replied, "The mine is going to collapse. Your father is trying to help those workers who are trapped."

Tin-Tin's eyes went wide, and her hand went unconsciously to her mouth. "But he could be-"

"He will be fine," Onaha snapped, trying to convince herself of the same thing that she had just told her daughter. "We must worry about us now. We must be ready for him at the garage. If he does not come, then we must leave without him."

He will be fine, the older woman repeated over and over again in her head. He will be fine. They will stop the cave in, perhaps, or maybe Trangh will come to terms and give his help to clearing the shafts.

Then it happened, ever so slightly that Onaha barely felt it until it happened again. A small tremor shook through the ground, shaking dirt and rattling the floor enough that she understood what was happening.

Time was of the essence.

"Hurry, Tin-Tin!" There was no hope of hiding the frantic tone in her voice. "Hurry!"

* * *

The evacuation was well under way, with the lower tunnels already mostly cleared to those closer to the surface. Kyrano helped in any way he could, carrying tired workers to the upper mine shafts or giving out water to those who were dehydrated from the heat that was quickly building in the mine. It was then that he felt the first tremor, a soft ground shake that rattled the overhead lights and turned the heads of nearly every man in his vicinity.

It became eerily clear at that exact moment what was about to happen. Grabbing hold of the nearest steel railing, Kyrano yelled, "Quake!" at the tope of his lungs and braced himself for the impact. On cue, the ground lurched suddenly to the side as the surface rock shifted itself and resettled even closer to the actual shaft itself. The pressures had to be enormous, and the ground too weak, for so much rock to be shifting so much without the aid of a seismic plate.

Steadying himself, Kyrano took a deep breath and willed his heart to calm down. It was past the point of saving the mine – it was very obvious that the ground was going to give way, very likely while people were still underground. While he was still underground, Kyrano realised with a shock. There was no way for him to reach the surface while hundreds of workers waited for the elevator to come down again. Already panic was ensuing, the noise level rising as the men tried desperately to escape into the upper shaft.

Pushing through the throng of workers who were now trying to crush into the elevator, which had finally reappeared, Kyrano arrived at the only dispatch phone on the level. A quick call to the Belagant apartment brought him some form of relief, for the call went unanswered, suggesting that Tin-Tin and Onaha had already relocated to a safe position.

A thought came to mind, and Kyrano quickly dialled in the number for mine's black market correspondent at the nearby port city. The phone rang once, then twice, then was finally answered by a quick talking man.

"Hello, Mie speaking. The boss is out right now, but until he returns I can assist you. What do you-"

"Enough, Mie! I have no time for this."

"Kyrano?" The voice on the other end sounded very unsure. "Kyrano, is that you? Your reception is terrible! Find a better phone. Are you sure you aren't being traced?"

"I can't find a better phone!" The sharp tones in Kyrano's voice were more than enough to grab the other man's instant attention. "There has been an accident at the mine."

"What do you mean, accident?"

"The ground is giving way! The entire area is about to collapse. Can you send someone to help bring our people to safety?" The ground shook again, more violently, and Kyrano knew that time was running out. "Mie, we are not all going to get out. Even if the mine does not completely fall in, we will still be trapped under ground."

"Kyrano, I-"

The phone went dead suddenly. Slowly, Kyrano followed the arm whose finger lay on the connecting receiver, until he met the eyes of his brother.

Incredulous, Kyrano gasped, "You! Trangh, what the hell are you trying to do?"

"We need no help," the other man replied calmly, in a voice that struck Kyrano as bordering on that of a madman. "If we call in the authorities, we will be forced to give up this mine."

"Yes!" Kyrano agreed, pleased that his brother at least saw some sense, yet at the same time infuriated that he still could not see all of the truth. "Yes Trangh, we will lose the mine. We will be punished for it, but at least we will still be alive. It is not safe anymore! I told you that from the very beginning, when we began the new digging, but you did not listen. We cannot keep it, Trangh. The entire structure is about to collapse. Someone in the port will surely notice anyway."

"No!" Red fury crept onto Trangh's face, and he shook his head violently from side to side. "No, I will not give up the diamonds."

"There are no damn diamonds, Trangh, only death!" Why couldn't the man see reason? Though stubborn, he had never been so far beyond Kyrano's reach before. "This whole mine is a tomb of the dead, and we knew it when we began! We did not even need the second shaft to collapse the ground. It was happening on its own, a natural process that we decided to ignore. A natural process that _I _chose to ignore because of you! Because of the other workers, because we have no choice but to work in this pit to keep our families alive! Try to understand that, Trangh. I am your brother. Do you not care about me?"

A flicker of something – realisation, perhaps – flashed across the older man's face, and he slowly relaxed his fists. "I will go to the lower tunnels. Down to the new digging."

"No!" Lunging forward, Kyrano caught his half-brother by the arm and spun him around as the man turned to leave. "No, you are walking into hell!"

"Then I will go to hell!" With a strength that Kyrano had never seen before, Trangh grabbed his arm back and flung his brother to the ground. Kyrano hit hard and skidded into the wall, his head connecting painfully with the bedrock. "There are diamonds there, Kyrano. Remember that when your family is begging on the streets or dying in a prison cell. I will be rich, and you will be nothing at all."

"Trangh!"

The final words that escaped the man's mouth, before he turned a corner into the depths of the mine, stabbed deep into Kyrano's soul. "You've always been nothing. Without me, you will become that again. Revel in your victory, dear brother, for it is all you have left."

Saving his breath, Kyrano simply let his head fall to his chest, a feeling of dread rising in him as he contemplated his half-brother's actions. He truly did not know what Trangh thought to accomplish in the lower mines, for it was obvious to anyone in his right mind that there was no escape from the secondary shafts that had already caved in. But maybe Trangh really was mad with loss of his fortune. Maybe he would be expecting the cavern to fall in around him, or for someone to come in and find him.

But there would be no salvation for Trangh Belagant.

As he looked around at the chaos, Kyrano came to terms with a second revelation – there would likely be no salvation for him, either.

_You are nothing, Kyrano. You should have broken the silence. You should have taken your family and run. Anything would have been better than this._

* * *

The language, a tongue that suggested a location in the Pacific, was one that John Tracy was reasonably familiar with. Though he was only slightly familiar with the Malaysian dialect, he was able to discern enough without the help of the computer to know that something was amiss. The man on the phone line, which John was tapping into, spoke in rapid and hurried syllables. A quick search pinpointed the call somewhere on the coast of East Malaysia, and the recipient of the call was the local aid organization.

" - tidak baik!"

_Bad,_ John thought, echoing the phrase around in his mind.

"Tapi anda mesti tolong!"

_But you must help._

"Antarabangsa-"

_International._

There it was. It was only one word, one simple spoken word cut off by some comm static, but it was said with such emphasis that John did not doubt the man's intentions. If they were at that point, then they truly were desperate.

_"International Rescue!" _

There it came again, only spoken in a broken English tongue. Some things were universal, apparently, International Rescue finally being one of them.

Keying the alert, John quickly set to work pinpointing the location that the man might be speaking about. If they were lucky, they would be able to arrive in time to help.

* * *

A third and a fourth quake had collapsed a great portion of the cavern's roof, cutting off all access to the elevator. Instead of rioting, the men had become strangely silent as if they were suddenly in acceptance of their fate. Some stood by and simply stared with glazed over eyes. Others spoke to their comrades. Some prayed.

Kyrano tried to remember the last thing that he had said to his daughter, Tin-Tin, and realised that it had been a simple bedtime wish the night before. Of all the things that he might have left her with, he had left her with something useless. Loving, perhaps, but useless. There had been no words of wisdom to follow later in life, no consolations, no promises of hope or salvation.

The air was becoming tighter as the oxygen slowly was used up, and Kyrano found it harder and harder to breathe. He could see the same horror dawning on the faces of those around him, as their cheeks turned red and their speech became laboured gasping. It was so difficult to take a breath, the pain in his chest so piercing.

Aware that the ground was again rumbling, Kyrano prepared himself for the end, hoping that it might come swiftly so that he would not be forced to suffocate to death on the floor of the cursed mine. How he wanted to die somewhere else, on the surface, between the trees that he had grown up with as a child before he had travelled abroad to school, only to return to the land and the mine that would be his grave.

But he hoped, more than anything he had ever hoped for, that his wife and daughter had managed to find a safe ground where they could escape the fate that was about to come to him. Yet, Kyrano felt that he deserved it, for he had – by not standing up to his brother and doing what should have been done – likely caused the deaths of at least a thousand other men that were about to be buried alive with him. It was the most acute form of punishment possible, a physical reincarnation of karma.

The world began to swim before his eyes. The flickering lights of the cavern turned into a barrage of swirling colour as the oxygen left the room. Kyrano was distantly aware of the wall breaking to his left, of the rock tumbling down onto the floor –

Then, quite suddenly, he found that he could breathe again. It was his ears that first alerted him to the presence of oxygen, for the soft hissing of an air purifier reverberated around the crumbling cavern.

Blinking hard and shaking his head, Kyrano picked himself up off the floor, only to find himself being helped to his feet by an unknown man – a foreigner, he saw – in a grey jump-suit with green stripes down the sleeves. There were words written down the sleeves as well, and Kyrano – experienced in English due to his education abroad – was able to read them quite clearly.

"Thunderbirds," he whispered, looking up into the calm face of a man that was young enough to be his son. "International Rescue?"

"Absolutely." The boy cracked a huge grin and hauled Kyrano the rest of the way upright. "You can speak English?"

His head still spinning from everything that had happened, Kyrano nodded and replied, "Yes, I am the co-owner of this mine."

The words struck a chord with the young man, whose eyebrows furrowed into a deep frown. He sighed, ever so slightly as to not be noticeable except to the trained ears of Kyrano, and lightly tapped a headset that he wore around his ear.

"Control, this is Mole. I've located the trapped men, as well as the man who owns the mine."

"My brother is the other owner," Kyrano offered, feeling an odd mix of relief and worry pulse through his veins at the same moment. He had no idea why he told the man the secret between he and Trangh that had remained hidden for so many years, save for the reason that the younger man would likely never reveal it to anyone else. "He ran into the lower mines. I fear he is insane."

The International Rescue man nodded slowly then relayed the information carefully over the communicator. When he was finished, he turned back to Kyrano and beckoned him closer.

"We could use your help. We've dug a tunnel through a stable portion of the ground to this point and need someone to help lead groups of men up to the surface. Are you healthy enough to do this?"

"Of course," Kyrano replied, not caring whether he truly was or not. The miners – his miners, the men he had doomed – needed his help, and he intended to do something to try and right the wrong that he had done to them.

"Are you sure?" The other man did not look completely convinced.

Kyrano nodded, then gestured towards the wall. "How did you-"

"Digger," the man responded quickly, "I don't have time to explain it all right now. But it's a drilling machine. That should be good enough."

There was a sudden sound of crashing rock, and the rest of the wall gave way to reveal the glittering tip of a large diamond fitted drill head nearly twice the height of Kyrano. Nodding in appreciation of the machinery, Kyrano pointed towards the craft and added, "Do you have more men?"

Nodding, the foreigner pointed towards two figures that were emerging from the gloom. Both were taller than the young man who stood before Kyrano was. One was most definitely the others' senior by at least twenty years, while the other shared strikingly similar looks to the older man that suggested to Kyrano that they possibly could be blood relatives.

"We'll split into four groups. I'll take one, you'll take one, and one of the other men will take one."

"What about the drill?"

"The extra man will take it up once everyone is clear." The quiet manner in which the man made the comment suggested that they would not necessarily wait for the mine to completely clear. "Listen, we'll try and do the best that we can. But our seismologist is telling me that we only have twenty minutes at best. Once we pull Mole out, the wall will collapse back down, and there will be no exit."

Kyrano had no doubt that if the cavern were to go, then the International Rescue men would pull out and save only as many as they could. It made no sense to risk their machines in a situation that they could not completely win. It pained him to think that many of the men around him would still die, but the thought of salvation for a few allowed him to make his choice.

"Agreed." Accepting the hand that the man offered, Kyrano shook it and gave him a determined grimace. "Then let us begin."

* * *

Two minutes - that was how long John Tracy was giving them before the ground became too unstable to stand upon. It was three minutes longer than he had originally wanted to allow, but the steady stream of men pouring from the failing mine had stalled his decision. But there had to be a cut-off point, even if there were still people trapped below the ground.

He glanced briefly at the timer that ran on one of the many Thunderbird Five computer screens, grimaced, then turned back to the seismograph readings that he was receiving from the Mole's built in monitors.

One minute.

It was the one thing in the world that he truly hated - the responsibility of literally playing God for even a few moments. He held in his hands the lives of the men still trapped below the ground. They would live or die because of his choice. Some, of course, would die no matter what, but there were the few caught in the middle, the few who would have escaped if given a few more seconds.

Thirty seconds.

"How're you doing, Scott?"

"There's too many down here. We're never going to get them all out."

The seismograph display suddenly jumped, dropped, then jumped again in a series of quakes that grabbed John's attention immediately.

It was time.

"Scott, pull out. Grab as many as you can, shove them in the Mole, and get the hell out of there."

"John, are you sure?" Virgil's voice jumped into the conversation, sounding concerned despite his best efforts to hide his feelings.

"Pull out!" The words exploded from John's mouth, and he slammed the computer console in frustration. "Dammit, pull out!"

The readings on the seismograph suddenly jumped immensely. Over the radio, the sound of crashing rock could be heard. It continued for several minutes, until the only noise that could be heard was a soft static coming from the receiver itself. That cut out too as the computer compensated for the change in density and cover, leaving Thunderbird Five in an oddly surreal blanket of silence.

For a heart beat that seemed to stretch into eternity, John thought he had lost them. That one pulse of his heart throbbed in his chest, into his arms, even into his fingers as if trying to wash away the feeling of dread that was settling into his body. He wanted to fall over, wanted to collapse, but he found himself paralysed, unable to do anything but sit and hope.

"That was too close." Scott's voice suddenly broke out over the radio, and John groaned and fell back in his chair in relief.

"Are you guys all right?"

"Skinned a little, but otherwise uninjured."

"How's the tunnel?"

"Still upright. We took the Mole on a detour to give the guys on their way up time to get out. But the entrance into the shaft is sealed over. I think the whole main area collapsed in."

Taking a deep breath, John held it for a few seconds in an attempt to calm down, then let it out as slowly as he physically could. "How many are still down there?"

Scott was very slow in answering. "We pulled out over five-hundred," he finally replied at length. "Five hundred men that wouldn't be alive right now."

Five hundred - the number was almost surreal compared the amount of men that they normally saved. Yet, how many had been crushed to death under the rubble of the complex?

"How many, Scott?"

He truly didn't want to know, yet he always ended up asking all the same. It gave him a perverse inspiration for the next mission, the challenge of carrying out an impossible rescue with no casualties. It never happened that way, of course, but hope was better than the alternatives.

"How many?"

"Enough."

Weighing Scott's tone in his mind, John indirectly bit his lip and grimaced. As kind as he had tried to be, Scott had left the number up to John's imagination, and what he envisioned in his mind was not something that would let him sleep easily that night.

"We'll do better next time," he muttered absently to no one in particular. It was a false hope at best and a horrible lie at worst, but it was the best that he had to offer to the dead. "We'll do better."

* * *

It was an odd feeling, watching from a distance as Kyrano Belagant was finally reunited with his family. They had located the man's wife and child at a safe house a few miles removed from the mine and had immediately ferried him to the location as soon as he had been treated for the concussion that he had suffered.

Jeff felt a smile trying to come onto his lips, but it was not a pleased one. Instead, it spoke of a bittersweet feeling that he could not quite place.

"It's hard, isn't it?"

Turning to face his eldest son, Jeff grimaced sadly and nodded. "It sure is."

"It's a horrible feeling," Scott continued quietly, fumbling around with his headset absently. "To be jealous of someone for being happy."

So that was what it was, Jeff realised. It was the jealousy of a man who had never been reunited with the one who had been lost. It _was_ a horrible feeling, Jeff realised, a horrible yet inexplicable emotion that ached ever so slightly inside his heart.

"It's human." The younger man smiled ever so slightly. "Isn't it? We're still human."

"I suppose."

The sound of a squealing girl interrupted their conversation, and both men turned to see Kyrano pick up his daughter in his arms and bring her to his chest. They looked so happy, Jeff thought, despite all that they had lost.

Despite all that they had lost.

"You're right." The admission was hard, but Jeff knew it to be true. "We're still human. But that means we still have the capability to be happy as well. We saved five-hundred people back there."

A tiny laugh escaped Scott's mouth. "That _is_ something to be proud of. It's more than I would have thought possible, given the circumstances. It's too bad that we couldn't find his brother. Kyrano seems like a good man, unlike his brother who, by the sounds of it, kept him from acting sooner."

"That won't save him from persecution, though. It would take a miracle for his family to escape completely unscathed. He did have a choice in the matter, after all. He could have stood up to his brother in the first place."

"That's too bad. Most of them probably had no choice." Scott glanced at his father. "Not everyone lives in luxury. They were probably just able to make ends meet working at the mine. Kyrano probably didn't want to bring the authorities in prematurely in the situation that they would arrest everyone. If his brother had listened to him, maybe the entire disaster would have been averted without outside intervention."

That _was_ too bad, Jeff thought, and he wondered if his son was correct. Kyrano's face had fallen when he had been told that Trangh had been buried in the mine somewhere, and yet Jeff thought he had detected in him a small glimmer of relief. He honestly didn't know what had happened between the two, or what had happened at the mine for that matter, but he wondered if some justice had been done by the older brother's death. Kyrano truly seemed to care about his family and his co-workers, and that care had placed him in an awkward and incriminating position.

"You can't save everyone, Scott," Jeff lamented, remembering a moment many years back when he had told the exact same thing to another of his sons. Many things had changed since then, and yet that adage had not.

In the background, Tin-Tin gave another squeal of delight and kissed her father gently on his cheek.

"I guess we just have to remember that."

* * *

The situation that Trangh Belagant found himself in was completely inexplicable. A good part of his mind had come to terms with the fact that scarce hours ago he had gone completely mad, and the other part had been ready to accept death as a punishment. But death had not come. He had stood blankly as rock had fallen about him, had closed his eyes and prepared for the darkness that had been expected. Darkness _had_ fallen, as had the rock, but not in the way that he had envisioned.

So now he waited, surrounded by a ring of rock that was unbroken save for where he stood. He stared at the dirt and the roots, trying to puzzle through in his mind how the walls and roof had collapsed on every spot but where he had been. A dull throbbing pain thundered through his head, but he attributed it to accidentally catching a rock on the head and nothing more.

All around him there was silence. The bedrock, having finished shifting, was likely forced into the position that it would be in for thousands of years. He was literally entombed in it, surrounded by a black and invisible barrier that he could touch but not see.

And his filthy half-brother had likely died in the ruins on the other side. The thought enraged Trangh, not for the loss of the other man whom he had hardly seen as anything but a tool to achieve his goal, but at the resurfacing pain of losing the entire mine. He had been so close to breaking the new shaft, so close to finding the diamonds –

As his fist connected with the rock wall, Trangh became distinctly aware of two things. First, the rock seemed suspiciously soft, as though he was crushing clay in his hands. But it was the second thing that grabbed his attention, forced him to feel around the flaking dust of the wall with his fingers. There it was – a little hard bit buried directly into the bedrock, a rock that was a different composition than the surrounding mine because it was made of magma.

It was the edge of the kinderlite, the magma tube that had carried the diamonds up from the pressures of the deep to the very surface of the world. And there _were_ diamonds in it; he could feel them one of them on his palm, the harsh carbon rock digging in and cutting his flesh as he clenched his hands in growing rage.

There were diamonds in the shaft. If there was one, there were bound to be more. They had only found scant few in the actual second pit, but if they had only had time to thoroughly explore the connecting shafts and tunnels between the two pits . . .

But he was stuck there with them, unable to get out, unable to capitalise on his find, unable to rebuild and reopen the illegal mine in order to further his profit! Whether intentionally or not – intentionally, his mind screamed – Kyrano had left him to die. No one had come to find him, they had left him to be crushed in the ensuing cave in.

With a scream of the most pure and untamed rage, Trangh slammed his fist into the rock wall – only to realise with a start that he had somehow put his hand right through it. The rock crumbled around his wrist, turned to dust by a force that he did not understand but was beginning to recognize.

For as long as he could remember, Trangh had been blessed with the slightest ability of mind control. It had only been small before, had allowed him to occasionally sway the viewpoint of an opposing official, or to throw a man to the ground with more force than was generally needed. But what was happening before him –

The mental stress. That had to be it. The rage, the absolute indescribable fury had unlocked some portion of his mind. Or perhaps it had not even been the rage at all, but a survival instinct so strong that it had thrown boulders to the side and carved a tomb for him out of magma rock. Yet, it was the rage that unlocked it, gave him the strength to thrust again and again at the rock with his bare hands, pulling the wall down before him with only a trickle of blood down his palms from the scratching and digging edges of the raw diamonds.

The pain in his head grew, but Trangh shook it away and focused on his goal. If there were a hundred barriers between him and the surface, he would find his way out.

A thought came to mind, and Trangh ceased his efforts for a short time, instead refocusing his efforts on trying to find more of the diamonds. Somehow, some part of his mind could _see_ the diamonds, the tiny specks buried with literally millions of tonnes of dirt. He willed them to come towards him, and ever so slowly the rocks miraculously dug a hole through the bedrock and fell into his palms. There were not many, but they were enough to provide him with ample funds when he finally escaped from the hell pit.

Satisfied with his find, Trangh resumed his tearing down of the barricades.

* * *

There was no concept of time in the pitch-black world of the mines. He did not know how many minutes he spent breaking the rock, how many hours he spent trying to quell the dull and aching pain in his head, stomach, and throat. It was meaningless. Only his goal, his survival, mattered, and Trangh refused to collapse to the ground. The constant anger in his thoughts steeled his mind, sharpening it to a point, eventually allowing him to break the rock with little or no physical effort at all. He still did not understand the power that was being unleashed – and he did not care.

With a final cry of effort, the man crashed his entire body into the wall before him, sending rock flying forward with incredible force. He stumbled out from the corridor into what seemed to be the main shaft, his feet catching on rocks that sent him sprawling forward on the dusty and broken surface of the mine.

Trangh lay prone on the ground for several long moments, taking long and laboured breaths in an attempt to gain the strength to stand back up. It was a monumental effort to even sit, but the task once again gave him some focus for the rage that was in his mind. As he pushed himself to his knees, his hand brushed briefly against a metallic object.

Startled, Trangh grasped around for it and finally felt his fingers lock around the steel handle of a mining lamp. He brought it up to his face, hoping that the light still held, and fumbled around for the switch with his free hand. At first, the lamp simply sparked, but Trangh refused to give in and flicked the switch again and again until a piercing white light blinded his eyes.

A graveyard, a slaughterhouse really, lay before him, rocks and bodies buried and shattered together by the natural and intruding forces of the Earth and jungle. Faces were marred; limbs were crushed by the weight of the surrounding dirt. But there, on the far wall where there should have been a good strong concrete barrier, there was a hole. It was half buried, to be sure, but there was a distinct hole where there should have been none at all.

There were too few bodies, part of Trangh's mind cried out, the cold-calculating part that always spoke reason to the rage and the anger of his other half. But the elevator was closed, unreachable. How could they have possibly escaped?

Through the wall.

Trangh ran his hands over the shattered edges of the concrete, and once again a feeling rose in him that he could neither quench nor control. Someone had come down to the mine with a drill, and had made a passageway for the miners to escape through. Someone had come to rescue the men.

Someone had left him to die on his own, alone in the darkest and foulest reaches of the mine.

A flicker of light caught his eye, a reflection of the dying light of the lamp on a pool of water that had drained in from the surrounding rock. Entranced, Trangh knelt down, looked into the pool, and saw a face that he did not know. The face that stared back at him was not the face that he remembered, but a haggard and pale one that seemed to be chiselled from the very forces that lay inside of him. Reaching up a shaking hand to his head, Trangh felt the small follicles of hair – that were showing signs of growing out again – fall into his fingers.

He looked old, he realised in horror, more than ten years older at least than he should have. The leering eyes, the worn cheekbones . . . he doubted that even Kyrano would recognize him.

The thought of his brother brought Trangh from his trance and infused in him an anger that he had never known. Of everything that had already been revealed to him, the unusual power running in his veins alone brought him hope . . . and now, he was cursed once again by the untapped power that had allowed him to escape from his grave.

That power, the power that was cursing him with a slow death, would be needed to allow him to completely escape the mine. As he tore through the rock wall, his mind sending boulders flying into the bodies of his deceased workers, Trangh Belagant settled on one thing. He was ruined, and likely would never operate a mine again, illegal or otherwise. The authorities would not let him. He would be charged for mismanagement, imprisoned, and be held responsible for the death of his men. He would probably be executed if the courts had their way.

But he had the diamonds in his pocket, and he carried within him something even more potent – a growing and burning hatred for the ones who had counted him as one of the dead. He still had his contacts. He could make it happen.

If he did nothing else in his life, in the miserable half-life that he had left before him, he would make them pay. And perhaps then, only then, would he consider himself satisfied.

A scream tore itself from Trangh's throat, and he hurled the final rock from the barricade into the opposite wall of the shaft, shattering the unbelievably large boulder into a thousand fine pieces. That was what he would do when he found the men responsible.

He would destroy them.

* * *

**A/N: **I need to take a brief moment to apologize to everyone that has been reading this story. A month and a half wait for the next chapter is a long time, and I feel I need to give some explanation. It's simple, really. In the past month or so I have finished two summer classes, have started working full time again, and have become excessively burnt out from three full semesters of university classes in a row. I haven't even put pen to paper this last month in any decent amount, and I'm only just starting to feel relaxed. As it is I will be quitting my current job at the end of July in order to try and locate my sanity again before school starts in September. If I can help it, the next chapter will not take that long to appear. Given that writing is my form of stress relief, I won't let "Winds" sit so long again without being touched. Thank you to everyone for waiting so patiently up until this point. And, because I am a workaholic, I have started work on the sequel, which is something that you all can hopefully look forward to when "Winds" is complete.

That's it for Trangh, ladies and gentlemen, at least in this story. I'll admit it, I really enjoyed writing him. It was both scary and fascinating to try and get into the mind of such a ruthless villain. There is so much more story that I could tell, but I think readers will be able to fill in the gaps themselves. My thanks go out to Ariel D for reading this over! As always, your comments were infinitely helpful. :)

Reviewers!

**EwanJamieMcLaughlin - **(blushes) Thank you! I'm glad that you enjoyed it. It's great to have another reader.  
**Rachie -** Thank you so much for your kind words! It's great to see another new reader. Yes, I do try to keep a balance between humour and angst, because I think real life is like that most of the time. One second you laugh, the other you cry. :) I hope you liked this chapter just as much.  
**Math Girl -** Yikes! I've heard a few stories like that now. :) You have my admiration. I think I would have hid in a closet rather than go to school the next day.  
**Antilles - **I think it would total anyone's day. ;) And that's why he'll eventually be going on rotations - so he doesn't go space happy again.  
**Zeilfanaat -** At least you managed to save Ch. 25 as a treat. ;) I'm glad to have you back, and I'm glad to see that you liked them all! And don't worry, I'll try and be reasonably quick with the next few chapters. :)  
**Moonlightbear -** Indeed, it is a while to the movie. Don't worry, you'll find out what happens with that. I think way far ahead when I write. :) (And I had no idea what F.A.B meant for the longest time).  
**Andrewjameswilliams -** Well, now you know I guess. :) Actually, it also explains Tintin in the movie. It seems that trauma and stress brings the power to a forefront, so her powers jumped exponentially when she was forced to hold back the flames from the T1 exhaust tunnel.  
**Marblez -** Thank you! I'm so glad that you like this one. :)  
**Barb from Utah -** You can really appreciate his day, then. :) I've had a few of them myself.  
**I'mpeckable -** Whew, I'm glad to hear that someone has hair like that! I honestly wasn't 100 percent sure that hair could do that, so it's great to see that confirmed.  
**Ms. Imagine -** Jeff's perspective was fun to write. :) And I've actually left the bit with the 'tea' to the reader's imagination. I'd love to write it, but I have to draw a line somewhere since I don't have time to write everything that I would like. So, feel free to let your imagination do what it wishes with it. ;)  
**Clairie -** That's pretty much the reason why I wanted to do this chapter differently. I didn't want to fall into something that's pretty common in our fandom. Besides, I had fun writing John that way. :) Well, the next chapter isn't quite about Gordon. But that's coming up very very soon. Science lab? Well, you won't see it, but you'll read about it.  
**Assena -** For Gordon, see above. ;) I love the ominous music, by the way. Actually, Gordon will be in the next chapter, so look for him there!

* * *

Catch next chapter, called "The Growing Family", where Alan meets Tintin, Gordon and Virgil meet a scorpion, and Jeff meets the future head on. Until then, FAB all! 


	27. The Growing Family

_

* * *

Dislcaimer: Thunderbirds is the property of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, as well as Carlton and Universal. No profit is intended to be made from this story; it is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended, and none should be inferred. All original characters are the property of the author. This story should not be used or copied without the expressed written consent of the author. _

* * *

**The Growing Family  
****March 2019**

Stopping only once to look behind him, Alan Tracy jogged as fast as he could across the rocky beach of Tracy Island, his breath escaping from his mouth in laboured gasps and wheezes. As much as he liked to think of himself as being in good shape, the thirteen-year-old knew there was no comparison between him and his four older brothers. Even John managed to keep himself in decent shape while up on Thunderbird Five, and he was by far the least fit of Alan's brothers.

Glancing around again, Alan quickly darted behind a grove of palm trees, hiding behind the wide trunks so that only the tips of his blond hair were blown into the open by the wind. There was no way that he was letting them catch him. He had tried to explain to Virgil that he had not intended careen into his baby grand piano with a box of dead bugs, but Virgil – too enraged at the thought of damage to his prized possession – had been past the point of conversation.

It was a rare thing indeed for Virgil Tracy to become angry, and Alan hated to be around within arm's reach when he was.

The sound of feet hitting the sand alerted Alan to the approach of his brother. From the noises, it seemed as though Virgil had company. Sure enough, as the footsteps came closer, Alan could pick out two very distinct voices deep in conversation.

"I swear, Gordon, I'm gonna kill him."

Alan took a deep breath, and tried to convince himself that his brother would never lay a hand on him. Even if he was angry, after all, Virgil was generally mellow enough to shrug things aside. Eventually.

"Want some help? I think I've got some fishing wire in my room still."

"No. That'd be a bit messy. Geeze though, Gord, you don't know how glad I am that you're finally home for break. I've been going insane here, what with John gone and Scott and Dad always busy with something. At least I have someone to talk to."

But no one ever cared if Alan was home. More and more he was beginning to feel like a burden that was constantly tossed from one place to another, like a game of hot potato that no one really wanted to play. It just wasn't fair. The rest of his family could goof off all they wanted, and Alan was stuck in school, in classes that he hated, when he really wanted to help out his family. He didn't want to be learning math and science - he wanted to be doing something important.

Gordon was in the same position, of course, but it wasn't as though he were held down to his academics. With the amount of swimming that the other boy did, it was a wonder that he was still in school at all. Plus, he was going to be allowed to join International Rescue as soon as he graduated. Alan still had quite a few years of schooling ahead of him, which was a thought that did not impress him in the least.

_Look at him,_ Alan thought darkly, peering around the edge of the tree just far enough that he could make out Virgil and Gordon's forms standing by the water. _Another of Dad's perfect sons. He's worse at school than me, and Dad's still proud of him. I don't want to be at school either, and he's making me do it anyway. Why can't he be proud of me? Why can't he let me do what I want? It's just not fair._

The sharp sound of a breaking twig resonated in the air as Alan's foot slipped and came down on a piece of driftwood. In the distance, Gordon and Virgil turned suddenly in his direction, the older boy's eyes lighting with fire.

"Did you hear that?"

"Little squirt must be over there." The red-head's voice jumped up an octave. "Heeelloo, Alan, come out, come out, wherever you are! We're not gonna hurt you."

Somewhat sardonically, Virgil added, "Much."

The time for hiding was long past; launching himself from the tree, Alan tried desperately to pick his way through the heavy jungle back up to the house. The tree leaves scratched at his cheeks, and several branches snapped and hit him in the stomach as he fled. Finally, out of breath but still ahead of his brothers, Alan broke through the cover onto the lower pool deck of the home.

Back in the bush, he could hear Virgil and Gordon shouting for him to come back.

"Like hell," he groaned, looking around for a place that he could possibly hide on the pool deck. The grated cover of the air vent caught his eye, and he ran for the entrance and began to pry the metal open with his hands.

The door, rusted from the sea water atmosphere of the island, was half open when a voice asked calmly from behind him, "Alan, what are you doing?"

Alan turned around, and looked up sheepishly into the confused face of his father. Jeff Tracy peered down at him intently, his arms folded across his chest.

"Uh . . ." Giving the gate a kick with his foot, Alan quickly stood up and gave his father an innocent grin. "Just checking to make sure that the vents still open. We really need to fix these, they're getting all rusty."

At the exact same moment that his father's face bent into a frown, Alan's brothers came exploding out of the overgrowth, covered in leaves and twigs and looking like they were ready to skin him alive.

There was definitely a lesser of the two evils. "So Dad, what's up?"

It was the magical question. With a renewed smile – the grate apparently having been forgotten – Jeff took his son by the shoulder and directed him towards the house. "I'm glad that you asked that, Alan. Truth is, we have some visitors, and I'd like you to meet them." As if sensing the presence of his other sons, the older man looked behind him and nodded toward the house. "You too, boys."

Alan didn't have to look to know that his brothers were fuming. It didn't take much imagination – Gordon was always infuriated about something, and Virgil, when he was actually angry, was hard to forget or ignore.

Thankful that he had been spared for the moment, Alan followed his father into the house.

* * *

She was a pretty little girl, Jeff Tracy noted, very delicate and refined compared to many of the girls he had seen his sons tagging along with at school. A dark Malaysian complexion highlighted a large pair of brown eyes. It was the eyes that spoke of intelligence, always darting from side to side, taking in the surroundings of the new building. 

It was Jeff's hope that the Belagants would fit in well into the Tracy household, but he was most worried about their daughter. Kyrano had assured Jeff that Tin-Tin was indeed very sprightly and energetic – to the point of being considered almost pert. Yet it was obvious that the mining disaster had taken a toll on the girl, for she had spoken very little since the family had arrived on the island.

Jeff could understand what was going on, for his own boys had reacted in a similar way immediately after the death of their mother. Even Gordon, who was as wild as Tin-Tin was supposed to be, had not spoken for nearly a week. He wasn't sure how long it would be before the girl came around, but if his sons were any example, it could very well be a while.

There was no more time to worry, however, as the boys were now in the room expecting to be introduced to the strangers that stood before them. Thankfully, Jeff didn't have to begin the awkward introductions, for Virgil's eyes went wide and he pointed a hand directly at Kyrano. The rest of his brothers, who were all in the room, glanced in his direction.

"It's you!" As soon as he said the words, Virgil's cheeks turned a faint shade of pink, and he bent his head ever so slightly in apology. "Sorry."

"It's all right," Kyrano replied politely, in an accented yet fluent English. "It does not surprise me that you are startled."

"You never mentioned this to me," Scott added, sounding slightly hurt that he had – for once – been left out of the loop. "What's this all about?"

"You obviously remember the Belagants from the mine disaster in Malaysia," the older Tracy began, meeting Kyrano's gaze with a polite one of his own. "Well, several things happened during the clean-up, including the two of us touching base again. I was in the area on a quick business trip and caught the end of the trial - which was rather quick considering the outcome of the disaster. Kyrano found me then and expressed his desire to repay us for saving him. I agreed, deciding that fate had played an unfair hand in the ordeal and that he and his family deserved a second chance. I pulled a few strings and agreed to some terms in order to convince the government to let them go." He smiled. "Kyrano doesn't consider it payment of course, but I do."

Gordon's eyes widened in surprise. "Another agent?"

"Close." Jeff almost felt bad that he knew what was going on, while his children had no idea. "Kyrano and his family will be staying with us on a permanent basis, a form of house arrest that the Malaysian government was apparently satisfied with. His wife, Onaha, is a wonderful housekeeper, and Kyrano is trained and extremely experienced in natural biology and geology. They will take care of the house and the yard as a form of payment to us."

Jeff silently counted to ten before continuing, giving the boys time to let it sink it. "I know what you must be thinking, but I feel that we can trust the Belagants with our secret. I've learned the hard way that sometimes you have to work with other people in order to succeed, and I think having them on the island with us will be a blessing. Kyrano's actions in the mine clearly saved the lives of his men, and that speaks more than anything in my books."

"You can trust me and my family to keep your secret," Kyrano put in quietly, in the polite and subdued tone that he always seemed to use when dealing with anyone. "I owe you my life, Mr. Tracy, and to betray you would be unforgivable. You have saved my family."

The four boys looked at each other, silently weighing their options, until – out of nowhere – Gordon laughed, punched his fist in the air, and gave a loud and raucous cheer. "Yes! I don't have to make my bed anymore!"

The other boys laughed, and even the stone-faced Kyrano cracked a small smile.

"Gordon," Jeff replied sternly, trying so hard not to laugh that his cheeks felt as though they were burning. "Onaha still expects you to make your own bed and clean your own room."

"Oh, but Mr. Tracy!" The woman put in suddenly, in a louder and more animated voice than that of her husband. "Do not worry, I am-"

"Not expected to clean up after my children," Jeff decided firmly, knowing it was better to put his foot down from the very beginning then to run the risk of things getting out of hand. "Boys, think of Onaha as your mother – anything that your mother did, Onaha will do. Anything that your mother hated doing, don't even think about making Onaha do it."

"But-"

"That includes making your bed." He gave Gordon a stern look to reinforce the thought. "There is no room for debate."

"Ah fine." Throwing his hands up in the air, Gordon turned and walked back towards the deck. "I've got to go do my laps for the day. If anyone needs me I'll be drowning in the pool." He walked out the door, calling behind him, "Nice meeting you, though!"

Exasperated with his son, Jeff turned towards the Belagants and extended his hands in apology. "I am very sorry about this. Gordon isn't normally like this."

"Yes he is," Virgil mouthed in an articulated enough manner that Jeff caught the motion out of the corner of his eye.

"It is all right!" Onaha laughed and waved an unconcerned hand. "He seems like a nice boy. They all do."

Jeff smiled, inwardly pleased that the Belagants at least seemed comfortable at his home. "Perhaps you'd like to introduce your daughter."

"A good idea." Turning, Kyrano beckoned at the girl that hid behind him. "Tin-Tin, come out and say hello to the Tracys."

Very tentatively, the young girl poked her head around her father's waist, saw the three remaining boys gathered in front of her, then decided that perhaps the world looked better from behind the man.

"Tin-Tin, please come out."

The change in tone was subtle, but Jeff knew enough from being a parent himself that Tin-Tin wouldn't disobey her father twice. Sure enough, the girl sheepishly came out from behind Kyrano and curtseyed politely to the Tracy boys.

"Nice to meet you." Her voice was very sweet sounding, yet even at such a quiet level it spoke of the hidden strength that Kyrano had described to Jeff earlier. "My name is Tin-Tin."

Both Virgil and Scott nodded politely and gave the girl a pair of warm and welcoming smiles. "Good to have you here! I'm Scott."

"I'm Virgil. And yeah, it's always nice to have another person around."

Alan's face, however, crinkled up into a frown, and he declared with some degree of uncertainty, "Tintin. Isn't that the name of a cartoon character?"

Jeff didn't know the answer, and he didn't know if Tin-Tin knew the answer. He _did_, however, know that she was extremely displeased with Alan's initial welcoming. The girl gave the blond haired boy a foul look, then turned and stormed in the direction of the kitchen. Onaha quickly hurried after her daughter, her face creasing into a deep frown.

"Tin-Tin! Tin-Tin, come back here!"

Jeff was even more displeased with his son. There were some moments that required a certain degree of tact, and Alan seemed to be oblivious even to the existence of the word. "Alan, that is no way to greet a lady."

"But isn't it a cartoon character?" The degree of absolute cluelessness that his son spoke with absolutely astounded Jeff. "From a re-run show?"

"Alan, I'd like to tell you something. I claim to understand very little about women, but I do know that you've somehow managed to cross a line here."

"She'll come back," Kyrano interrupted, glancing back towards the kitchen. "She's not that upset, you know. Just a little shy."

From where he stood, Scott snorted and gave his younger brother a sincerely dirty glare. "You're lucky squirt. You could have been really stupid and told her it was the name of the dog."

"Hey!"

At that moment Onaha returned to the room, her face reflecting on it a certain degree of worry. "She's left the house."

"She'll be all right," Kyrano added quickly, easing Jeff's fears that the girl would hurt herself if she ran into the jungle. "The jungle here is very similar to the one that she grew up in. She will be in no danger. But she might become lost."

An idea struck Jeff at that moment, and he turned to his youngest son with the hopes of enlightening him. "Alan, go find Tin-Tin."

The boy's mouth dropped open, and his face contorted into an even more unhappy expression. "You've gotta be kidding! That could take all day!"

"You caused the problem," Jeff replied tersely, "you can fix it."

"But I didn't do anything to insult her!" Alan gasped in exasperation, throwing his hands up in the air. "Why is it my fault?"

"Someday, Alan, you'll learn about manners and responsibility. But until then," Jeff gestured with his right hand towards the outside door, "you'd better get started."

* * *

"W-w-w-why do I have to come with?" Fermat complained quietly, as he trudged along behind Alan through the thick underbrush of Tracy Island. The words came out in clusters, every time that Fermat took a breath and had extra oxygen to spare. "I am not built for this type of strenuous exercise!" 

Giving a glance over his shoulder briefly, Alan simply shrugged and continued walking. He hadn't asked, more hinted, for Fermat to come along, and it wasn't really his fault that the shorter boy couldn't make the jumps over tree branches that he could. Still, he slowed down just enough that Fermat's face turned to a more general pink shade, a far cry from the violent red that it had been mere moments earlier.

"I can't believe this girl," Alan muttered, reaching a hand to snap off a tree branch that was in his way. "It's not like I told her that she was ugly."

"She's having troubles a-a-a-adjusting," replied Fermat quickly. "I think I would too if the same thing happened to me." He stopped for a moment, then shook his head. "What am I saying? It did happen to me."

"All right, Fermat." Nothing annoyed Alan more than when his friend got off a long tangent about something, and the last thing that he felt like was a lesson on psychology. If he needed that, all he had to do with talk to his father and he was bound to hear a long lecture on human behaviour. "Cool it. Let's just find her and get back to the house." But then, when he finally arrived back, Virgil and Gordon would likely detain him, and revenge would be taken swiftly and painfully.

Suddenly, a prolonged journey into the jungle didn't seem like such a bad idea.

* * *

Virgil Tracy waited patiently on the couch by the window looking out over the pool, his arms folded across the backrest, underneath his chin. His eyes narrowed every time there was movement outside, whether that of a bird of some form of exotic insect. 

"Is he back yet?"

The chestnut haired teenager shook his head, and replied, "No sign of him. Any ideas?"

"Well . . ." Gordon took a long breath, and relaxed deeper into the armchair that he sat in. "We could shave him bald. Or we could just throw him into the pool."

"How about you do nothing?"

Neither brother expected to hear the quiet tones of John Tracy, given that he had only been up in space a few hours earlier. They both turned around where they sat and were startled to see that their brother did indeed stand in the doorway of the room, his uniform undone to the mid chest, revealing a light grey undershirt that was stained with small patches of sweat. Though he had made more trips to the station than either Gordon or Virgil could count on all of their fingers, John always looked worn when he arrived home. No amount of experience could completely remove the physical toll that space flight took on his body.

"John!" A smile blossomed onto Virgil's face at the sight of his brother. "When did you come down?"

"About ten minutes ago."

The comment made little sense to Virgil. "What? I didn't hear the rocket come down."

"Neither did I," Gordon put in, "and you can hear that thing from a mile away."

"I didn't come down on the rocket." The older boy sighed and ran a hand wearily through his matted platinum blond hair. "Brains has being trying to work out some sort of escape capsule for me, just in case something goes wrong up there. So eventually, someone had to ride it down to see what would happen."

Realisation dawning on him, Virgil found himself drastically more interested in what his brother had to say than if he were talking about another routine landing. "So that's where everyone went. Dad and Scott just ran off without telling anyone after they introduced the Belagants. They took the 'Birds with – I thought they were running some sort of exercise with them."

"Are they back yet?" Gordon asked.

John smiled faintly, and pointed out the window. "Gord, they're busy trying to fish the capsule out of the Pacific. At least Dad is. Scott brought me back in Thunderbird One."

"So it worked?" Virgil said, picking up where his brother left off.

"Hardly." The smile on John's face disappeared and a look of worry creased across his forehead. "Systems almost completely failed at forty-thousand feet. Dad snagged the capsule on the way down with Two's grappling system and slowed the descent into the water."

The thought of his brother barrelling uncontrolled towards Earth at several times the speed of sound did not sit well with Virgil. It was a wonder that John didn't look worse, given how he and space flight normally got along. "Shit, John. It's lucky that you weren't hurt."

"Yeah, I know." The older boy shrugged, as if he could do nothing else, and made to leave the room. "I knew it was dangerous. But we needed to test it in a non-emergency situation."

Across the room, Gordon rolled his eyes and added, "It's not like you guys don't have the equipment. So what's Brains' verdict?"

"No go." John sighed deeply, looking more and more as if he wanted to climb back into bed for the day. "It wasn't just the computers – something failed with the main thrusters, and I need to have _some _form of control coming down in case I hit over land. He said it could take months to redesign the capsule so that the engines at least work, and then another few months to begin to put it together."

"Ah." Another flash of movement caught Virgil's eye, and he absently turned to stare out the window. "Rats, the little bugger isn't back yet."

"What _did_ he do?" Virgil couldn't see his brother, but he was sure that John's mouth was folded into a frown. "Honestly, Virgil, you're the most forgiving of any of us. I didn't think he had the ability to get on your nerves. And yes, I know what's going on. Scott told me about it on the flight back."

John's words struck a bit of a chord, but no more than the dead scorpions in the open piano top had. Virgil _was_ normally the most forgiving and calm of any member of the family – even compared to John, who was quiet but still had a tendency to take things to heart – but there were still things that could push his buttons. Alan just . . . had a talent for pushing those buttons, whether it was with Virgil, the principle at his school, or his father.

With a very evil smile, Virgil turned to John and replied, "He accidentally dumped a bucket of dead insects into the open top of my piano. They're all over the sound board and the strings." Even relieving the moment for his brother was enough to boil Virgil's blood. He honestly didn't care if Alan had meant to do it or not – there were just some things that a person didn't mess with, and Virgil Tracy's piano was one of them.

"_Was_ it an accident?"

"Probably. But I really don't care. Even if I don't toss him into the pool, he's still going to clean the mess up. Carefully. If he ruins the tuning, I'll have to take more drastic measures."

"I'll help you." Gordon raised his eyebrow mischievously, and Virgil was sure his younger brother was once again planning trouble. "I have a few things that I want to get back at the little twerp for myself."

Throwing his hands up in the air, John turned to walk from the room. "Do what you want. But honestly, if it was an accident, cut him a little bit of slack. He has enough trouble as it is without his own family breathing down his neck. If you're just out to bug him today, maybe let him be." With that, the blond astronomer left the room.

"Obviously he's never experienced Alan before," Gordon commented, a hint of sarcasm coming to his voice. "The kid's become a nightmare. Virgil, _I_ haven't gotten kicked out of my school."

Maybe John was right, Virgil thought, as he watched out the window for a sign of his brother's reappearance.

Alan _was _a handful, but Virgil wondered how much of the trouble he caused was on purpose. With Gordon, one always knew that a prank was intentional. But Alan, whether out of carelessness or apathy, had a habit of causing accidents whenever he was around. Then, when his family retaliated out of frustration, he truly fought back. More often than not, when he was home from school, the youngest Tracy could be found locking horns with his father over some school issue or another.

Maybe it was their fault. But then again, Alan could at least try to get along with his family. It had to go both ways, and if he wanted to act like an outcast most of the time, then that was his prerogative. If he wanted true respect from his family, he had to give it to them in return.

But wasn't love of that sort supposed to be unconditional within family?

"Virgil. Virgil, an alien ate your piano. He's chewing the black notes as we speak."

Gordon's light and teasing tone shook Virgil from his pondering. A part of him had come to the conclusion that Alan's . . . attitude . . . was the fault of the entire family, but the other part of him had decided that Alan had to accept that he was still young and still had a long time to go until he was a grown-up. Because, more than anything, Alan seemed to be jealous of his brothers, of what they had done, and what he _hadn't_ done.

"He's still got time," Virgil muttered, slowly loosing all desire to hunt down and punish his brother. The bugs were just bugs, after all, and with a little elbow grease the piano would be clean again. Alan hadn't even been pert when it had happened – which _was _a rare occasion, granted – but had instead looked a mild degree apologetic. "I wish he'd just calm down. I think that's what got me mad today. It wasn't the bugs, it's everything he's done up to that point."

"Hmm?" Leaving his chair behind, Gordon sauntered over to his brother and sat down beside him. "What, pondering the meaning of life or something deep like that?"

"Kind of." Sitting and stewing about life wasn't something that Virgil did often, but it tended to happen on occasion when something just didn't settle with him. Alan . . . wasn't settling well with him, simply because there was not much that he could do. For every time that he teased Alan when it wasn't needed, there was a time that Alan did something to him out of youthful arrogance or spite. A good person, a truly pure-hearted person, would put up with the kid –

As pure-hearted as he was, Virgil knew he was no angel, and even he had limits. John was right to some extent, but he had been wrong to assume that Virgil would always put up with Alan. Then again, John had an amazing ability to understand why people acted the way that they did, and though the older boy often times seemed to be saddened by human behaviour, Virgil had not seen him retaliate when he had been wrong in a very long time.

"I wish he'd just grow up." How true those words felt when actually spoken. "Gord, I can't handle him when he's home. I _want_ to be nice to him, but then he always ends up acting like a-"

"Complete and total asshole," finished the redhead, nodding in agreement. "Definitely know what you're getting at." His voice was uncharacteristically quiet, especially considering it was spring break and there was plenty to be excited about. Gordon snorted softly and gazed out the window, his brown eyes reflecting the gentle light that bounced off the pool water. "I can kind of see where he's coming from, though."

Startled, Virgil turned to his brother and replied, "Really?"

"Yeah." The redhead gave another laugh, and rested his chin down on the back of the couch. "It's nice to be able to say that you've done something. Heck, maybe he just wants to be part of the group. Everyone else has done some really impressive things, and he's still stuck learning algebra."

That observation could have come from Virgil's own mouth, yet he was surprised to hear Gordon of all people saying them. "I think you're right, Gord. Dad told me last week that Alan told him he wanted to join IR when he was finished school this summer."

"Betcha Dad told him no."

"Well, yeah, he's hardly old enough. I was surprised that he let _me_ join, and I was even finished school. I guess John was only nineteen when he came on board, though."

"John's in a different category than us, Virg. He had a degree and everything. Real impressive."

Almost certain that there was something wrong, Virgil grabbed Gordon by the shoulder and turned him so that he could look him in the eye. "Okay, Gord, what the hell is up?"

"Nothing." The other boy shrugged, and gave Virgil what appeared to be an honest grin. "I'm . . . never mind. It's nothing.

Whatever 'nothing' was, Gordon obviously wasn't ready to talk about it. But there was something else that Virgil had picked up on when his brother had been speaking. "D'you feel the same way as Alan?"

Gordon's face grew uncertain for a long moment, until he finally shrugged again and shoved Virgil's hand off his shoulder. "Why would I? You guys are good at school and stuff. I'm good at . . . other stuff. Why'd I be jealous?"

There were limits to how far Virgil pushed people. Unlike his father or Scott, who could sometimes be concerned to the point of being arrogant, he knew when to draw the line. "Fair enough. But hey," he smiled as he spoke, "you could kick any of our cans at the breaststroke. I hope you know that."

Gordon turned a shade of red that directly complemented his hair and looked away quickly. "Course I do. That's why I don't bother racing you. _Grandma _could beat you if she were still alive."

So much went unspoken between the two. Yet, so much had always gone unspoken, as it had never needed to be said. Gordon knew what Virgil meant, and Virgil knew that Gordon understood where he was coming from. Even if he couldn't tag along with him at school, they still had a connection there that would be unbroken over time and distance.

And Virgil knew that Gordon was not just defending Alan, for as soon as the boy reappeared he would be under the mercy of his feisty older brother. No, something deeper had unconsciously been implied by the words. He wasn't sure if it pertained to IR exactly, but it did have something to do with Gordon's apparent lack of a career.

"Besides," added the red-head, "I don't care whether we're supposed to be nice to him or not. He's being an asshole right now, and Dad won't let anyone that immature within ten feet of those ships."

Then, suddenly, a figure appeared between the trees out by the pool. It was tall, too tall to be an animal, and its mop of dirty blond hair stuck out amongst the greenery. Virgil leaned forward on the couch so that he could see better, and his eyes went wide.

"Gord, he's back."

The sentimental moment having disappeared with Alan's emergence, Gordon jumped from the couch and barrelled out the door. "The little bugger, making us wait this long. He's mine."

* * *

It was just what he had expected. The moment that Alan had stepped from the edge of the foliage he knew he was doomed. Worse than his brothers' revenge, however, was the fact that he had spent nearly two hours trying to find a moody little girl that quite plainly didn't want to be found. Tin-Tin had been in no danger – Alan had seen her jump away from him several times, further into the underbrush, and he knew she was capable of finding her way back on her own. 

Yet it didn't make him feel better as Gordon dived down from the stairs, caught Alan by the shoulders, and pulled him roughly towards the water.

"Gord! Get off!" Alan shouted, pulling at his brother's hands with little success. Bit by bit, he was being dragged in the direction of the pool. "Man, calm down!"

"No way," Gordon replied happily, "you are in for an official Gordon Tracy dunking today! Did you actually think you were going to get out of this?"

It was quite obvious that Gordon was having too much fun to even think of calming down. But Alan wasn't unaccustomed to his brother's actions – in fact, most of his childhood had been spent wrestling around with one brother or another. If Gordon wanted to play rough, then Alan would return the favour.

Just as the pair reached the edge of the pool, Alan looped his foot around Gordon's calf and gave as hard a tug as he could. The motion threw the older boy off balance, and with a cry he began to fall towards the water. With a splash, Gordon and Alan went headfirst into the pool, while Virgil sat on the edge of the deck laughing quietly to himself, altogether quite pleased that he had managed to escape getting wet.

Alan and Gordon resurfaced at the same time, Gordon looking pleased that he was once again in the water, Alan furious when he realised that Gordon didn't care that he was wet. It wasn't as if there was anything on him to ruin, but all the same Alan stormed from the water and grabbed a towel from a rack that was kept near the pool.

"It still wasn't my fault!" Alan growled, towelling his hair off enough that it could finish drying in the sunlight. "Fermat wanted the stupid bugs, and I was trying to hurry and get them for him."

"I won't make you clean the piano," Virgil admonished from where he sat, "so I consider this sweet justice. It'll take me forever to wipe mashed scorpions off those strings!"

"Jerks." Throwing the towel in Gordon's face – which did nothing to quench the boy's laughter – Alan stalked back toward the jungle where Fermat was waiting for him.

"I-i-i-i'm sorry," the younger boy admitted, pushing up his glasses absently with a finger. "I should have said something. You _were_ trying to help me out earlier."

"It's not a big deal," Alan muttered, glancing back to see his brothers still laughing at his predicament. "They just love to see me suffer." A thought dawned on him suddenly. "Great, and we still have to find Tin-Tin. This day," he waved his arms in the air in resignation, "just keeps getting better and better!"

"Alan-"

"You know what, Fermat? Tin-Tin's smart. She has the right idea. Who'd want to stay with this family anyway?"

"Alan." Grabbing the older boy by the arm, Fermat tugged Alan around and pointed at the pool. "L-l-l-look!"

What Alan saw absolutely astounded him. There, hanging from a tree directly above the point where Gordon now stood, _was _Tin-Tin. Her feet, wrapped around a sturdy branch, supported her and left her hands free to dangle a rather large and vicious looking scorpion onto the top of Gordon's head. As quickly as she had appeared, she vanished back into the canopy, leaving Gordon – and Virgil, who was too preoccupied with laughing to notice – with a rather unfriendly looking visitor.

It was Virgil who noticed the insect first. The cessation of laughter was sudden, and the older boy's hand went to his mouth as his eyes widened in shock. "Gordon . . ."

"Yeah?" Looking all the part of a fool, Gordon raised his hand and ruffled his hair as he always did when he came out of the water.

"There's a really big bug on your head."

His eyes narrowed, and Gordon carefully pulled his hand away from his red locks. "How big? As in, hand-sized bug?"

"You might say that."

"What kind?"

Virgil took a deep breath and replied somewhat timidly, "You know those scorpions that are in my piano right now? The dead ones?"

Gordon's face began to pale.

"There's a very angry looking one crawling through your hair right now."

Very, very slowly, Gordon raised a hand again and nervously poked at his head. "Virgil, where is it?"

"More to the left."

Every second Gordon's face lost more and more of its colour, until he was white and literally shaking where he stood. "Shit. Virgil, help me here before it kills me!"

The entire situation, had Alan not thought it so serious, was almost funny. No part of him wanted to see his brother hurt, yet the image of Gordon – so completely scared, almost to the point of wetting his pants – was hilarious.

Virgil, meanwhile, had quickly ran over and, with a long pool stick, was trying to knock the bug off Gordon's head. "Hold still, Gord! I'm gonna hit you with it if you don't."

"Just get it off," the other boy moaned, swaying from side to side in spite of his best efforts. "This thing must be poisonous enough to melt my skin or something!"

Giving another swipe with the pole, Virgil grunted in satisfaction as the metal connected with the bug, sending it flying far into the bush. He dropped the stick to the pool deck and let out a long and drawn out breath. "Geeze. You are so lucky that I noticed it."

"How the hell did it get there?" Still seemingly uncertain that the bug was in fact gone, Gordon ran his fingers through his hair over and over again, feeling every inch of scalp where the scorpion could be hiding.

Virgil shrugged, then looked over at the tree that Gordon had been standing under. "I don't know, maybe it fell from the leaves."

From their positions in the bush, Alan and Fermat traded amused glances. "They're never going to figure this out," Alan snickered, as Gordon and Virgil quickly – and with a large amount of paranoia, he saw – made their way towards the house. The two disappeared inside, giving Alan the cue necessary to relax.

"T-t-t-there was no danger," Fermat responded quietly.

"What? Weren't those the same scorpions that you had in the box?"

"They're not dangerous to humans," answered a voice, a sweet and distinctly female voice, from behind the two boys. "Their bite is only strong enough to kill small animals. A person might become sick, but they would never die."

Alan spun around, not really surprised to find Tin-Tin Belagant standing behind him, all uncertainty gone from her face, leaving behind a lot of spunk and just a touch of superiority. "Why the hell'd you do that?"

The girl shrugged and promptly sat down on the nearest tree trunk. For all Alan could tell, she looked as though she already knew the jungle on an intimate level.

"I hate people that are arrogant." The faintest trace of a grimace crossed her lips, interrupting her playful smile for only a moment. "My Dad's boss was arrogant, and look what happened. I'm stuck here with people like you."

Completely ready to punch Tin-Tin, girl or not, Alan managed to bury his irritation inside of him. Instead, he returned her playful grin and replied, "You know, if you actually looked like a girl, I might have been worried."

Standing up with explosive force, Tin-Tin glared back at him and spat, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like." Grinning all the while, like a man who had won a million-dollar jackpot, Alan began to walk back towards the complex. Fermat followed behind him, smart enough – and knowledgeable enough of his friend's past history and attitude – to stay completely out of the conversation.

"Alan Tracy!"

"Oh!" Alan pretended to be startled though in fact he was slightly surprised that she knew his name. "That's impressive, considering that we were never formally introduced."

"My dad," Tin-Tin replied, catching up quickly with Alan so that she could glare up at him from his side, "told me about your family before we even came here. And _your_ dad was at least polite enough to give him that much information."

"Really."

"He never told me that he had an alien as a son, though."

"Then why'd you dump the scorpion on Gordon? Scared to do it to me?"

"If," the girl spat back, "I'd known that your attitude was this bad, I would have dumped it on you instead. I can't believe that I ever felt sorry for you." With a flip of her hair, Tin-Tin ran towards the house.

"Tin-Tin was the name of the dog!" Alan yelled after her, immediately regretting it as she turned around to glare at him again.

"Good for it – it's a nice name." Tossing the boy one last glare, she slammed the door behind her.

Fermat and Alan stood silent for several moments, until the brown haired boy shrugged and offered, "Maybe she's still adjusting."

Maybe, Alan thought, but more than likely . . . that was the way she was. High-spirited, rebellious to those whom she disliked . . . she was a lot like him. And she _had_ nearly scared the pants off of Gordon, which was more than enough reason for Alan to like her.

"Nah." Banishing the thought immediately, Alan turned to Fermat and decided, "I am sick of this day. Let's just go in, grab supper, and get out of here."

* * *

Tin-Tin absently poked at the food on her plate, trying to avoid eye contact with those around the table. The vegetables were beginning to look like little more than mush, but she wasn't hungry enough to actually eat anything. She had been on the island one day, and already she had managed to do something . . . very irresponsible. 

It was not in her nature to behave badly, but Tin-Tin was sick and tired of being pushed around by those who were arrogant. What should have been aimed at her father's boss had instead been aimed at Gordon – and Alan, who had witnessed the event, was sure to rat on her as soon as the topic was brought up. She deserved it, of course, having been completely out of line, but the last thing that she wanted was to be disciplined her first night on the island.

"Tin-Tin, dear, eat your supper," Onaha whispered quietly, placing a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Do you feel well?"

"It's nothing, Mom, just a stomach-ache."

Across the table, the two older Tracy boys were loudly discussing their latest rescue operation. Scott animatedly waved his hands in the air, and Virgil occasionally made a humorous remark about how his brother talked better than he flew. As long as that conversation kept going, Tin-Tin thought she might escape from dinner unscathed.

But it wasn't meant to be. Karma was karma, her father always said.

"Scott, just shut up for a moment and listen to what happened to Gordon."

"Okay fine, Virgil. Fire away."

Keep a straight face; that was the key to remaining completely anonymous.

"The biggest scorpion I've ever seen somehow managed to get tangled up in his hair!"

"Come on Virg, don't act like it was so funny."

"A scorpion?" Mr. Tracy arched an eyebrow and failed to hold back a smile. "Gordon, how did you manage that?"

"It fell out of the tree!" The redhead's face was animated with the shock of the memory. "It must have! I swear, one moment I was standing by the pool, the next minute Virgil was trying to knock my head off with a stupid pool stick!"

"Next time you can get rid of the bug on your own, then."

"I didn't mean it like that, Virg."

As the rest of the people at the table laughed at the two boys' bantering, Tin-Tin felt a distinct pit forming in her stomach – a pit of impending doom.

"What were you doing out at the pool, anyway?" The words came from John, the soft-spoken blond who apparently was rarely home due to his shifts up on the International Rescue space station. Tin-Tin thought him a bit strange, really, when compared to his brothers. For every bit of cockiness or arrogance that they possessed – which wasn't really too much, she discovered, when she thought about the matter much later – he seemed to make up for it with his respectful and apologetic manner.

He also had, quite accidentally, brought up the very topic that could lead to her punishment.

"Uh, well," Gordon stammered, turning to look ever so slightly at his brother. "We were just . . ."

"Looking at the scenery?" John snorted and gave his brothers a shrewd stare. "How was the water? Warm enough?"

"Sure," the redhead replied uncertainly, quite obviously fishing around for some sort of way to change the subject. "How was your shower?"

Tin-Tin felt a pair of eyes fall onto her face, and she caught, from the corner of her eye, the casual glance of Alan Tracy. No words left his mouth, but the expression in his gaze was enough for her to see what he was thinking.

_"Go ahead, tell them."_

And it occurred to her that she also kept a secret, for she had seen Alan tossed into the pool by his brother. Perhaps, just perhaps, Alan didn't want to trade his brother's punishment with the entire family discovering that he had been beat up on. Maybe it was a matter of pride, even. Tin-Tin didn't know for sure, but she expected that she would eventually find out more in the coming time on island.

"Karma." The word barely escaped her mouth, so as not to be heard or seen except by Alan Tracy, who raised his eyebrows in confusion at the barely discernible word. She returned his gaze with a cool one of her own, taking subtle pleasure as his eyes narrowed in response to her challenge.

_Go on, Alan. Tell them what you saw._

"What do you mean, those kind aren't deadly?" Gordon's voice exploded out from the table. Standing up and banging his fists onto the surface, he glared in the direction of the scientist, James 'Brains' Wilson. "I thought all the bugs on this island were deadly!"

Another round of laughter ensued, instigated mostly by Virgil. "How was I supposed to know? If I hadn't done that and it _had_ been dangerous, you would have killed me!"

"No I wouldn't have," growled the redhead, "I would have been _dead_!"

And still Alan sat silently, laughing at his brother but making no move to reveal to the rest of them exactly how the scorpion had fallen into Gordon's hair. He sat the entire rest of the meal that way, making occasional conversation only when asked, keeping his eyes directly on Tin-Tin the rest of the time.

Tin-Tin, too pleased to want to cause Alan more trouble, also let the issue fall silent, though she too kept her eyes on the boy, in case he made a move before she could. That was another of the proverbs that her father had taught her: know your enemy.

Well, she planned one way or another on getting to know her enemy quite well. If she was going to be living on a tropical island with a bunch of men, she was going to have to find something to do. And some part of her, a part that she very much wanted to punch, wondered if Alan might be a better companion than not. Sure, he was irritating and immature even more than the rest of his brothers were, but he was her age and was in the same predicament that she was in. He seemed out of place where he was, at odds with his environment. Maybe he even felt without a home just as she did.

Which was all the more reason to avoid him completely. Shaking her head, Tin-Tin wondered what she was coming to. The thought of tagging along behind Alan made her skin crawl – being in his presence was irritating enough in itself, so why did she want to spend even more time with him?

"So, Alan, Gordon, are you ready to go back to school? How about you, Fermat?"

Having been home schooled for her entire life, Tin-Tin had not expected to hear those words come from the mouth of her benefactor. It didn't matter, though – maybe she _didn't _need Alan's company after all. He could run off for all she cared; she'd find something to do on her own. There was the entire island to explore, and of course there was always the chance to speak more to Mr. Tracy himself, to try to get to know better the man who had so willingly taken in her family. There were the other boys as well, the mature ones that were already a part of International Rescue.

Alan Tracy? What a joke; she didn't need him.

* * *

John did not normally make it his business to intrude on the affairs of others. He liked his privacy and expected others to respect it, just as he held himself to respecting the privacy of those other people. He considered himself to be something of an observer, a man who sat on the top of the mountain and watched everyone around him and understood why they acted the way that they did, but who could not join them for lack of his own desire to. 

But special circumstances called for special actions, and it wasn't every day that the Tracy family grew in size on a permanent basis. Even if he wouldn't be down on the island most of the time, he still hated to see things start off on such rocky ground. Tin-Tin and Alan had tried to be subtle, but few things escaped John's keen eye, including venomous and daring glances across the dinner table.

He found Tin-Tin where he expected to find her - on the balcony of the second story of the home, gazing out across the jungle to the glimmering ocean beyond. The sun, as it always seemed to be when he was home, was beginning to set. The transition set the water ablaze, leaving trails of amber and topaz in the gently rolling wake, and a light wind shifted the leaves in the trees below.

The young girl's hair, pulled back into a complimentary ponytail, drifted about ever so slightly in the breeze. Her eyes were focused on some distant point on the horizon, lost in the direction of her homeland.

Approaching her carefully so as not to startle her, John leaned his elbows against the chest high railing and joined her in her daydream. It was several moments before Tin-Tin even noticed his approach; when she did, it was with an expression of much incredulity and surprise.

"Just wait until the sun sets completely," John told her, "the stars are as nice here as they are from where you came from."

He obviously had a way to go in terms of developing a natural sense of tact – this lack of inert social know-how was one of the reasons that John typically was quiet around strangers – for Tin-Tin passed him a neutral look, then continued to gaze out at the sea.

"I'm sure they are."

Not ready to give up after only one sentence, John decided to try again. "You speak English exceptionally well, better so than most people from your country. Did your father teach you?"

"Of course," was all she offered at first, her voice cold, suggesting that the topic should be dropped. "He thought it would be important, so I was taught English and Malay from almost birth." She turned back to the water and refused to meet his gaze again. "Most people are, from where I come from. It's important, you know. We do a lot of business with foreigners. I've just had more practice."

Understanding her situation from many moments of personal experience, John simply nodded and stood quietly by her side. He was rewarded after several long moments, when Tin-Tin – obviously perplexed at John's silent vigil – turned to look at him once again.

"Is there something that you need?"

Even after hearing her speak three times, John still found himself amazed at the poise and level of maturity that the girl displayed. She was obviously still quite young, and with that youth came an inherent immaturity when dealing with adults, but her _overall _intellect seemed to be on a level more equal with his own. Of course, John admitted silently, she wasn't that much older than he had been when his mother had died. They both had been forced – still were being forced, in the girl's case – to grow up when they were not old enough to fully understand why.

"I just wanted to make sure that you were okay," he offered quietly, suddenly feeling very exposed and vulnerable even to a person of Tin-Tin's age. If he said the wrong thing it was very likely that she would close up and speak no more – and that was something that John did not want to happen. "You looked a little upset at dinner." Before she could jump in, he sighed and held up a hand apologetically. "I'm sorry. I understand why you would be upset, and you have every right to be. I've never seen a person be happy in such a drastic period of upheaval."

Instead of shutting him out, Tin-Tin turned a curious eye in his direction and replied, "I guess you see a lot of that where you work."

That small insight into his life impressed John more than anything had in a long time. That Tin-Tin, at such a young age, was able to look past her own situation to see the bigger picture was remarkable. Then again, she _had_ struck him from the outset as being incredibly poised. The little bit of wisdom had simply confirmed his initial impression – and it signified that she was, perhaps, willing to talk.

"I deal with a lot of people like you and your father," he admitted, thinking back to the rescue itself and how harrowing an experience it had been. "People that have walked away from the brink of death; people that have lost their homes; people that have lost everything in their life. Half the time they aren't logical. Most of the time they're in a state of shock in some form or another, and nothing more can ever be expected from them. To see anything, any small hint of reason from a mind that has been that uprooted, tells me that that person is going to be okay in the end. Those people that stay calm and weather the storm, well . . . I know I don't have to worry about them."

The girl nodded ever so slightly, and appeared to mull over his comments in her mind. "I don't mind this island," Tin-Tin finally responded, her voice subdued, "it's a lot like home. It's just that . . ."

"You miss home."

She nodded, pursing her lips ever so slightly as she did. "I'm so angry at my father's partner, the other man that had owned the mine. If he'd just listened to what Dad had to say . . . I'm still angry with him."

"That's understandable. People act selfishly and bad things happen in return." John sighed, rubbing his chin absently with his hand. "God knows that they do. Sometimes a trainload of people die just to give one man a little extra income in his pocket."

Tin-Tin regarded him with a curious expression, her eyes finally settling somewhere between apologetic and saddened. "I didn't like him that much anyway. I think maybe it's justice that he died." She shook her head, immediately cringing at her own words. "That sounds so horrible."

"Justice doesn't make sense." How much did he understand that, as a man who weighed people's lives as his daily occupation? "Maybe he did deserve to die. Or, maybe he deserved to be punished in some other way." Shaking his own head at his contradiction, John laughed quietly and looked up into the sky, in the direction where Thunderbird Five lay. "I don't know if anyone _deserves_ to die. Death just seems to happen, whether we like it or not. Most of the time you can't control who lives and who dies . . . you just have to learn to live with it."

A startled expression crossed the girl's face. "But I thought your goal was to save people."

"Of course. Indiscriminately, randomly, without willingly picking who will live or who will die. I don't see the faces of the people who I deal with. I don't know what they look like. Sometimes I don't even know what gender they are. But death . . ." He rubbed his face wearily. "It just _happens_. It's a part of fate, just like the part of fate that sometimes places you in a position that you don't want to be in."

"It's like karma," Tin-Tin whispered in reply, a look of realisation dawning on her face. "So maybe . . . maybe we weren't punished. We escaped, and that's what matters. We're still alive."

"That would be a good way to look at it. You're obviously good people, or my dad would never have taken the time out to help you." He smiled at her startled expression. "Did you think Malaysia would willingly let you go? Dad had to pull a lot of strings for this to happen. I'm not sure what he did . . . actually, I don't think I want to know. Dad's been known to go above the call of duty and do something odd when he feels compelled to do so. I guess he decided that it was up to him to finish saving you if no one else was going to. He hates to see bad things happen to good people." He sighed. "You can take him away from IR, but you can't IR out of him . . ."

Tin-tin finally returned his smile, a goofy lopsided grin that brought a spark of spunk to her face that John had yet to see. "We could have ended up at a worse place than this island."

A feeling of immense satisfaction washed through John when he heard her words, for he knew that he had finally accomplished what he had set out to do in the first place. His intent had not been to forcefully make her enjoy her stay on the island – it had been to allow her to see for herself what the future held, as well as what could be forgotten from the past.

He counted to ten before moving, giving Tin-Tin enough time to completely settle her thoughts. Then, John slapped the railing contentedly with his hand and turned to leave. On his way back into the home, he stopped, tilted his head ever so slightly, and offered, "Good luck."

He never heard Tin-Tin's response, and he had no desire to. The comment had been haphazard enough, spoken with so little consideration, that John was worried that he would offend her and place her back where she had started before he had spoken to her. Still, it had been generic enough that it could be taken with an innocent grain of salt.

Or perhaps, just perhaps, Tin-Tin would be extremely astute once again and would see completely through his poor attempt at a joke. It would give her food for thought, at least until she saw Alan again – then she would be forced to consider John's words for what they were.

"Good luck," John laughed to himself as he closed the door to the home gently behind him. "Alan's not a bad kid. Give him a chance." It was too bad that Tin-Tin couldn't hear the words, but John could not bring himself to – and did not think it necessary to – say them aloud to the girl. At least his awkward attempts at conversation had not done any real damage. He would leave that to his other brothers, who more often than not were blunt rather than tactful.

On his way up the stairs, John passed by Alan, who seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere. Not wanting to meddle in his brother's life anymore, John simply shrugged and made his way wearily to his room. Suddenly, any remaining adrenaline left his body, and he felt a large urge to crawl up on his old bed and go to sleep. He had had enough problems of his own to sufficiently exhaust his own reserves, and if he was supposed to be on call the next day in case of an emergency –

It was time to give into nature.

Pushing the door to Scott's room open, he peeked inside, saw only empty space, then entered and closed the door behind him. With luck he would be able to sleep at least a few hours without being disturbed. Life on the space station meant that he was accustomed to only five or six hours of sleep a night. Back on the island, where things were not as hectic and urgent, he might actually be able to feel rested in the morning.

"What luxury." Grinning, John set about to finding himself a pair of sleep clothes that he could use. The thought of a full night's sleep was _very_ enticing, and he intended to partake in the activity as soon as he could crawl under the sheets.

* * *

Scott Tracy was not really surprised to open the door to his room and see his brother curled up in the sheets of the extra bed. The younger man had not been at the home very much in the past year, but when he had he had always insisted on bedding in the room that had been partially his for almost his entire life. Whether out of nostalgia, or something even deeper, John didn't seem impressed with the concept of sleeping on the couch. 

Making sure not to wake his brother, Scott went about getting ready as quickly as he could. He changed in the washroom so as not to make extra noise, and when he was finally ready to settle in for the night, only then did he re-enter the room. Even with the lights off, Scott had no trouble finding his bed. He was halfway crawled in, with the sheets nicely pulled up to his chin, when a soft voice chirped up.

"Why do you go to bed so late when you have the option of going to sleep early?"

Startled, Scott had to stop himself from pulling the sheets out from his bed in surprise. "Cripes, John, you could give a guy a little notice." He couldn't see his brother, but the quiet and lilting laugh signalled to Scott that John was reasonably amused with his antics. "How'd you know what I did, anyway?"

"I operate in the dark a lot. Think about it. I don't have the luxury of seeing what people are doing. I just know, from your voice, that you probably either peed the bed or pulled the sheets right out from under the mattress."

A grin escaped onto Scott's lips, and he let himself relax onto the mattress, his hands resting between his head and the pillow. "You don't know how good it is to have you home." An awkward silence filled the air, and Scott immediately wondered if he'd said something wrong.

Eventually, though, John sighed and responded with a certain degree of reserve. "I'm glad."

The words were very soft, almost inaudible, and Scott had to strain to hear them. "I know . . . that we don't always act like we miss you, but we do. Things are always less strained when you're around."

"I don't do that much."

"You don't have to, John. You know that. It's just that . . . when you're up there, floating around in the void, the rest of us don't have you to keep us in check."

John snorted. "When have you ever needed me to keep you in check?"

"Since always." And it was true. The younger man radiated a certain aura of resilience about him, a kind of polite acceptance that was catching. "Listen, don't expect me to go all sentimental right now. I don't think I need to be telling you this. You should already know it."

"I guess."

The obvious lack of enthusiasm in his brother's voice worried Scott, for John – except during the worst of times – was always optimistic. "John, listen, if this is about the pod-"

"No."

"Then if it's-"

"It's about me," the younger man blurted out suddenly, catching Scott completely off guard.

Knowing that he would likely get little sleep until he put his mind to ease, Scott pushed himself upright in bed and prepared for what looked to be a long night of conversation. It wasn't the first time that he had sat up with John, but it had been the most recent one after a break of nearly several years. "What about you?"

When John spoke next, it was in a louder and less controlled voice. "Scott, I don't know what to think anymore. I thought I had everything worked out, all balanced so that I wouldn't go insane up there."

Ah, Scott thought, so it was about the space station. "What did you have worked out, John?"

"I . . . oh," the sound of banging could be heard against the bedside. "I don't even know how to explain this."

"Well, when did this start?"

"I was fine when I went to bed. Really. Then you said about how good it was to have me home, and it hit me again like it does every time that I'm back here on the island."

A small amount of frustration surfaced in Scott's chest, and he tried to push back his growing irritation at John's uncertainty. "John, I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong."

"Scott . . ."

"Just try, John. I don't care if you make no sense at all, just try and explain it to me."

"Okay." There was silence for a long moment, then John continued. "Okay. When I'm up on the space station, it is . . . the greatest feeling in the world. It's so quiet, Scott. There's no one else up there to bother me. I can do what I want, when I want. And I can do the things that I like to do. It's very fulfilling."

"Sounds okay so far."

"And then, I get back home, and I realise how much I missed it down here. The island, being around all of you – and I remember how much I enjoyed talking to you when I was up on duty. And then I start to wonder . . . what the hell is wrong with me? I can't feel that way about both, constantly changing what feels like home in my mind. It can't be right, Scott."

"Why not?"

"What?"

"Why not?" Scott repeated emphatically, leaning his head against the side-wall of the room so as not to begin to fall asleep. "John, you are in the weirdest of situations. How do you know what is right? What you have going for you seems to work, so why change it?"

"I don't know." John sighed softly. "It just . . . it's almost as if I don't care about one or the other when I'm away from it. When I'm up in space . . . I don't want to come down. I don't think I even care about my family sometimes. I tried to stop that from happening from the very beginning, but it still does sometimes. I can't stop it."

Rolling his eyes, Scott laughed and responded, "John, I'm sure you care about us. It's just that you can focus your mind on other things as well. If something were to happen to us, would you care?"

"Of course!" John gasped immediately. He sounded very shocked that Scott had even suggested such a thing. "I . . . I guess you're right. It's just-"

"Don't try and be normal," Scott explained slowly, with just a hint of lightness to his tone. "We've been through this before, remember?"

"I-"

"Enjoy your time down here when you have it, and stop feeling so guilty about enjoying your work up in space. There _will_ be times when you don't think about us, and that won't hurt me, because I know that you still care about this family. Cripes, John, you of all people must care about this family. But you also have a right to care about something else as well."

"I guess." Scott's brother chuckled quietly, and the bed creaked as he rolled over on the mattress. "I was just worried that I would . . . forget you guys, or something like that."

"Bull. John, maybe you're a bit quirky with some things, but you're not inhuman. You have a nice balance working for you – why would you want to screw it up? Just keep trusting in yourself. Hell, you've been doing it this long and you've survived. You can't be that wrong."

"That's what I thought you would say."

Silence.

"Hey, Scott?"

"Yeah?" The words were so familiar, having being spoken so many times before, that Scott barely considered them before they left his lips.

"Thanks."

"No problem. Now go to sleep. We both have to be up tomorrow morning. IR doesn't grind to a halt just because the two of us want to sleep in."

Yawning, John laughed again. "Right. Good-night."

"Yeah, you too."

Several more seconds passed, during which Scott remained upright with no intention of crawling in. If he knew his brother, and he liked to think that he did, then John wasn't quite finished. John's bouts of concern generally didn't focus on just himself, and Scott was interested to hear what else was on his brother's mind.

He wasn't surprised, then, when John sighed and said, "Scott . . ."

"Hmmm?"

"I think Alan had a little tiff with Gord and Virg this afternoon."

That really didn't surprise Scott either. Enough hints had been dropped at the dinner table that he thought something might have gone on. John's own pointed remarks to his brothers had spoken volumes. "Yeah, I kind of figured that."

"Sometimes I wonder about them, Scott. I really do."

Scott snorted. "You've just got too much time on your hands, John. You think too much."

"Probably. I guess it's normal what they're doing. It's part of growing up. Alan wants to be part of the group-"

"You'd never be able to tell, the way he acts sometimes."

"And Gord doesn't want him to be."

"I thought you said Virgil was involved today?"

John gave another sigh. "Yeah, but I really couldn't blame him. Alan made a mistake. Virgil realized that after the fact. I think he's sorry about it. But Gord . . . it's like he's got something against Alan. And they used to get along so well when we were younger . . ."

"Times change," Scott said simply. "People change."

"But they're our brothers, Scott. I guess . . . it just surprises me that there can be so much animosity between them. They're really not that different. I wish they could see that. Gordon harps on about Alan goofing off in school, then he screws around and acts goofy all the time when he's supposed to be serious. It's like two sides of the same coin."

"Well Johnny, I guess they haven't figured out what they're missing." Scott smiled at the darkness. "Who knows, maybe Tin-Tin will do Alan some good. As for Gordon, I don't know what we could do to change him. Sometimes people get along, sometimes they don't. He'll come around eventually. I don't know what will make it happen, but something will."

"I hope so."

_I know it will._ Scott didn't know what it would take to bring his two youngest brothers to a form of reconciliation, but he knew that they had a lot of growing up to do before it would ever happen. "They'll both get a good knock on the head, John, and then they'll figure out what they're doing wrong. Everyone gets some sense smacked into them eventually."

"Yeah." The other man laughed quietly, a yawn seeping into his voice. "Yeah, I know what that's all about. Guess you're right, Scott. What's the plan of action, then?"

"All thrusters full forward." Settling back down into his bed, Scott turned his head in John's direction one last time. "Keep the course steady."

"Right. I copy that," John droned flatly, his voice dropping off. "All head full."

"F.A.B, John. Now this time go to sleep, or I'll have to knock some more sense into you."

A long and sudden snore was the younger man's response.

How he had missed talking with John the past few months, Scott realised as he rolled over with the intent of finally going to sleep. Even if it were in a serious manner, discussing whatever it was that was making his brother hurt, it was at least something. And it meant a lot to him that – after so many years – John still came to him for advice. Given how much he dealt with other people over the radio, and how deeply he understood human behaviour, it was reassuring to know that his brother was indeed still human.

With that thought in his mind, Scott smiled and drifted off to sleep. Morning would be there soon enough, but until then he would make the most of the night.

* * *

It didn't particularly surprise Alan to come downstairs for breakfast, only to find the house abandoned save for the Belagants. Onaha happily directed him towards the kitchen, where he found a hastily scribbled note on the eating table. 

_Alan,_

_Rescue call came in at seven, so we're all off somewhere in China by the time that you read this. Onaha has breakfast made, and if you need anyone Brains is in the lab. Gordon's out on the far beach doing some diving, but he won't be back until later. _

_Be back soon. F.A.B._

_John_

Disgusted, Alan crumpled the note up and tossed it into the garbage can. A rescue call had come – during holidays, too! – and they hadn't even told him. He supposed that Gordon was in the same situation, but his brother didn't seem to have the same passion for wanting to join the team that he did. Gordon enjoyed talking with his brothers about the missions, and often times put in his opinion on various issues, but he seemed more devoted to his swimming team that to any thought of becoming a Thunderbird.

"Mr. Tracy said they would be back later," Onaha called from the cooking area, where she busily whipped up a mess of hash browns and scrambled eggs. "Your brother wanted you to know that if you really need help, you can call him over the communications network."

Nodding, Alan sat himself down at the table and propped his chin up on his hands. Thankfully, there was nothing intrusive about Onaha's presence. In fact, she seemed to blend right into the atmosphere of the home, even granting it a feeling of motherhood that had been absent for a very long time. It would take a little getting used to, but even after one day he already knew that he would adjust.

That feeling was ruined the moment that Tin-Tin stepped into the room, her face bright and awake after a long night's sleep.

"Good morning, Tin-Tin!" Onaha called to her daughter, to which Tin-Tin laughed and hopped the rest of the way down the stairwell.

"Good morning, Mom!" She quickly sprinted to the table, grabbed a chair, and noticed with a start that someone was already sitting there.

Alan shrugged in greeting and continued to stare down at the tabletop. He had no intention of making eye contact with her at all. In fact, if he could help it, he planned on eating his entire breakfast while staring at his fork.

There was a bang of a pot, and a sigh came drifting from Onaha. "No food in this house! How does Mr. Tracy feed you?" From the corner of his eye, Alan could see the woman throw her hands up in the air in exasperation. "Tin-Tin, if your father comes looking for me, I will be outside trying to find some herbs to put in with the meal."

"Okay, Mom. I'll tell him." As soon as her mother left the room, Tin-Tin turned and gave Alan the most intense glare that she could muster.

It was very difficult to keep staring at the plate, especially when a girl like Tin-Tin was giving Alan's head a thorough boring in. Finally, the awkwardness of the moment had the better of him, and he returned the foul glare to its distributor. "What's your problem?"

Very slowly, glaring all the while, Tin-Tin replied, "Why didn't you tell?"

"Tell what?" Alan groaned in exasperation, only to remember what she was talking about. With a grimace, he added, "Oh, that. Well, now you owe me one. That's better than telling my dad any day."

"Right." A very sweet and evil looking smile tweaked at her lips. "So that makes us even, then."

Staring at her for a long moment, Alan felt a certain amount of anger building within him. She had a very good point, and by the fact that she already was aware of it . . . there was no way that he was going to get out of the situation on top.

"Fine, we're even."

"Fine."

The two glanced down at the empty dinner plates, and Alan wished that Onaha would return and finish off the morning meal. "So, what's your mom looking for?"

"Edible plants," Tin-Tin replied somewhat hesitantly, as if startled that Alan had asked her a genuine question. "The vegetation here is very similar to back home. A lot of the plants can be used to give food some extra flavour with little effort."

There was one other thing that had been bothering him, something he had been meaning to ask when the time was right. "So, where did you learn to climb trees like that?"

Every so slightly, as almost not to be noticed, a mild blush appeared on the girl's cheeks. "Practice. We practically lived in the jungle most of the time."

"Yeah. I'm stuck at school most of the time. But I wish I was here."

Somehow the moment became even more awkward, and Alan found himself looking at his plate again. It was odd, how the conversation had begun on such a harsh note, and how it was ending on such a . . . confused one.

"You don't like school?" Tin-Tin's voice was quiet. "Why does your dad make you go, then? Can't you be home schooled?"

"He doesn't have time." The words were bitterer than Alan would have liked, but he couldn't really disguise the truth of the matter. "Look, he can't even be here for breakfast on the few days that I'm actually at home. Maybe if he'd just let me come with him . . ."

Oddly enough, Tin-Tin said nothing as the comment spilled from his mouth. He worried that she would pick at him the same way that his brother's did, but instead she simply nodded.

"My mom and dad are always here. I guess I'm lucky."

Before Alan could respond, the door to the kitchen banged open, and Onaha came tromping back in, carrying in her arms a large assortment of plants and shrub branches. "Tin-Tin, dear, I found them!" The older woman dropped her load on the counter, then turned to her daughter. "Have you two been talking?" Her mouth widened in excitement. "That is wonderful, Tin-Tin! I will have to tell Mr. Tracy when he comes back – he was very worried about both of you!"

On instinct, Alan's expression returned to one of sullen irritation, and he retorted, "Are you implying that we're friends?"

"Hardly!" Tin-Tin added, returning Alan's expression ten-fold. "Mom, you can tell Mr. Tracy that his son needs to learn to behave."

"What!"

Raising one eyebrow, Onaha simply smiled and replied, "Don't worry, Tin-Tin, I will make sure that I tell him."

Fuming, Alan banged his fist on the table, his expression daring the girl to say anything else.

She didn't, however, but simply smiled that knowing smile back at him, as if to say, _"Want to play again?"_

He had three more days back on the island, until he and Fermat had to leave back to the mainland for school. Three more days in which he could prove his superiority to the girl that was smiling so sickeningly at him.

_All right,_ he thought smugly, _bring it own. _"So, Tin-Tin, how about I show you around the island today?"

Her shocked expression was more than enough payment for having to say the words in the first place. "What?"

"Fermat and I can show you the place. You know, where to find stuff, where to hide when your brothers are trying to kill you." Alan was somewhat disappointed – and more than a little confused – when, instead of frowning, her lips arched into what seemed to be a genuine smile.

"Sure, if you want."

No! screamed Alan's mind, wanting to take back the words as soon as he saw the emotions playing across her face. _That's not what I meant!_ "It's not like we're friends," the blond blurted out, putting emphasis on the word 'not'. "You know, it's just like a favour because you have to live here now."

"Sure," Tin-Tin repeated, her face still radiating happiness. "I understand."

Somehow, Alan thought as he finally gave in and smiled somewhat insecurely himself, he didn't think she did.

* * *

"Where is everyone?" 

Jeff had just arrived back at the home – having left the shutting down of the Thunderbirds to his sons – and was surprised to see no one at all. He had left Onaha, Kyrano and Brains in charge, yet none of them were to be seen.

The mystery was solved when he poked his head through the door leading to the pool and found the three adults seated on pool chairs around the deck. The focus of the attention was a mesmerising blur in the water, travelling from one end of the pool to the other so fast that Jeff could barely believe his eyes. It had been a while since he had truly watched Gordon swim, but he had never imagined that the boy could be so fast.

The shape slammed into the wall, and Gordon brought his head above the water so that droplets of moisture ran down his hair and into his eyes. "How'd I do?"

"F-f-f-f-fifteen seconds," Brains finally stuttered, checking carefully a stopwatch that he held in his right hand. "A-a-a-approximately."

"Dammit." Without second thought, the redhead dived back under the water and resumed his laps.

Surprised and impressed with his son's tenacity, Jeff quickly crossed the rest of the distance to the pool until he stood beside Brains' chair. "That's fast, isn't it?"

The engineer jumped several feet in the air – much to the amusement of the Belagants – and came down hard on the plastic seat. "Mr. Tracy, I'm sorry, I should have been waiting, only John called in and said that you wouldn't-"

"It's all right, Brains," laughed Jeff, completely unconcerned. "John was right, things went smoothly and there was no need for you to help them close down. That's why I'm here, actually. There's not much to do."

In the pool, Gordon continued to swim lap after lap, neither slowing nor apparently tiring as he worked.

"How long has he been at it?"

"A few hours," Kyrano replied, quietly interrupting the conversation. "He came back from diving and asked if one of us would time him. Since we had nothing pressing to do, we thought we would watch."

"He's a skilled swimmer," put in Onaha, her voice loud and joyful. "As good as any boy that I've ever seen, and I have seen quite a few in my time."

As much as Jeff wanted to stop and talk about his son some more, thoughts of another of his children pressed at the back of his mind. "Where's Alan?"

"Oh!" Onaha laughed and clapped her hands together. "He's off with Tin-Tin and Fermat. Alan offered to show her around the island."

That thought was enough to knock Jeff backwards a few steps. "Alan? Offered to show her? But I thought . . ." He didn't even bother to finish his sentence, for the look on Onaha's face showed plainly that her statement was true.

Not for the first time in his life, Jeff Tracy decided that children were a mystery more than anything else, a mystery that he had yet to decipher. Only the night before Alan acted as though he wanted to kill Tin-Tin – why the sudden turnaround had happened, Jeff had no idea. A large part of him did not care, however, because it meant that there might be some hope for his son getting along with the girl after all.

"I won't pretend to understand them," he muttered to know one in particular, as the four watched Gordon finally come up for air again. But it was good to know that the Tracy family had not been harmed in any way by the addition of the three Belagants. In fact, a small glimmer of hope suggested that it might be strengthened just as it had when Brains and his son had first arrived on the island.

The family was growing; that much was clear. And yet, something else - something profound - stuck out from Jeff's mind as he considered it. The family that was already there, he and his five children, was also becoming stronger. It was really only Alan that concerned Jeff now, and that thought alone intensified the hope in his heart that things were finally beginning to come together. The physical structure of his family, and the organisation that was International Rescue, had been there for a while, but it had been run partially by young men who were still uncertain about their future.

But now . . . his boys were not really boys anymore. They truly were growing up, into strong and sure young men who knew what they wanted to do and – more importantly – where they were going. Gordon was closely approaching his own epiphany; his effort in the pool showed strong evidence that he wanted to go in a direction different than that of his brothers. Jeff wasn't entirely sure if he wanted his son to devote his entire life to athletics, but in the end it would be Gordon's choice to make.

And then there was Alan . . . who was everything that Jeff could expect a thirteen-year-old boy to be. He had a long ways to go, and so many things left to learn, but Jeff knew deep in his heart that Alan would eventually discover what his other brother's had already found. Until then, it would be an uphill battle for survival. It would be hard, but if Jeff understood one thing about _himself_, it was that he was stubborn in the face of adversity.

For the moment, though, it was time to deal with the present. Shaking himself from his reverie, Jeff strode forward to help his son from the pool. The boy took his father's hand graciously and stood grinning in front of him on the deck.

"Thanks, Dad," Gordon laughed through chattering teeth. "Boy, it's cold in there today. How'd the rescue go?"

"Just fine," Jeff assured him, taking pride in knowing that the words applied to more than just the mission. "I think everything is F.A.B."

* * *

**A/N:** Hopefully this chapter sheds a little light on the Tin-Tin situation. You won't see Tin-Tin too much more for the rest of the story, which really saddens me, but I think this sets up the movie well enough that I don't have to go into anymore detail in that area. 

**(sounds trumpet)** Ladies and gentlemen, you may notice over the next seven chapters a subtle shift towards a certain character. Yes, Gordon fans, this is the moment that you've been waiting for. Next chapter marks the beginning of a certain saga of downfall and renewal. There are only eight chapters left to go in total, so we'd better make them count.

A **HUGE** thank-you goes out to Ariel D for reading this chapter over for me. Please everyone, as you read this, keep in your mind that it's been edited by the best in the business. :) No challenge daunts her, not even abnormally long chapters!

**Reviewer responses:**

**Marblez **– Yeah, I know it's been a while . . . but I've been busy. Sorry about that. (sighs) :P I can't make a complete guarantee that they rest will be really quick, but they won't be separated by months again. I'll just see what life tosses me and work around it.  
**Spense** – I know that feeling. ;) Catching up can be really enjoyable, actually. I think you'll be interested to see how John changes throughout the rest of the story due to events in that chapter. Also, keep an eye out when "Winds" is complete – I have a couple of short stories to be posted, and one of them touches on madness and such. Actually, I have a lot of work left to be posted . . .  
**Ariel D** – I felt like I was down there too; I felt a wee bit claustrophobic while I was writing it. ;D Zeil's busy right now, so maybe she won't notice your slip. ;)  
**Opal Girl** – I've noticed that! I don't know why, it seems strange that no one else has ever touched on the topic. I would have loved to have written the full version of the chapter that you've just read, but I had to draw a line somewhere, unfortunately. The scene where Jeff and Kyrano meet again during his trial is one that received the axe on the drawing board. Hopefully John and Tin-tin explained it well enough for all of us. ;)  
**numbuh 14** – Thank you! I'm glad to see that you're reading:D  
**mcj **– Thank you! I'm glad it was worth it. :D This one here didn't take quite as long to pop up. The next one is a lot shorter, so it should be quicker coming.  
**Math Girl** – Once again, thank you! Those words mean a lot to me; I really worked with that chapter to make sure that the Belagants seemed like people instead of fillers to the story. It can also be mentioned in passing that there is probably a connection between the diamonds themselves and Trangh's and Tin-Tin's powers. Tin-tin has a necklace in the movie; I'd bet that it has a diamond in it! ;D I didn't go into it because of space and time constraints, but I thought I'd throw it out here as food for thought.  
**Assena** – Hopefully this answered the question about Jeff and Kyrano – he's a very compassionate man, to summarize. :) He likes to help people, and I think at this point he's probably in desperate need of a housekeeper. Oh! I like the music! ;)  
**Andrewjameswilliams** – Thanks! I was hoping it would explain a lot of the stuff in the movie. I wondered myself how he could possibly have afforded all of that equipment.

* * *

Stay turned for the next chapter, entitled, "At Midnight", where two brothers have a late-night chat about siblings, swimming, and the English language. Until then, FAB all! 


	28. At Midnight

_Dislcaimer:_ Thunderbirds is the property of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, as well as Carlton and Universal. No profit is intended to be made from this story; it is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended, and none should be inferred. All original characters are the property of the author. This story should not be used or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

* * *

**At Midnight  
****April 2019**

A soft patter of rain fell against the window of the boys' dormitory, creating a soothing pattern of noise and visuals that almost sent Gordon Tracy into dreamland. His eyelids flipped open several times, taking in the rain that had descended upon the school. He tried to convince himself that he was back at the fitness center, back in the pool and the water that he loved so much. He found that if he looked through the very edge of his eyelashes, he could almost believe that he was underwater, far away from the boarding school and its inhabitants.

Save for the grove of trees that grew past the window, the effect was almost complete. Gordon was tempted to try and find a way to uproot the poplars so that they would blow over during the next rainstorm, but decided against it for fear of crashing one of them through the window of his room. The room got messy enough on its own without any outside intervention.

Shaking his head to clear his mind, Gordon looked down at the desk he was sitting at, his eyes falling to the laptop computer that rested on the polished mahogany surface. The screen was blank, except for the small flashing cursor that indicated it was all right to type.

Two thousand words, Gordon thought in near panic. How was he supposed to write two thousand words by the next day, on a topic that he not only didn't care about but also knew nothing about to begin with? It was as though his teachers intentionally tried to make his life hell, slamming him with homework on the nights that he had swim practice or was too tired from the swim drills to even think of doing work.

"Explain the effect that first-person narrative has on the mood of the novel," he muttered, glancing briefly at the crumpled instruction sheet that lay on the desk beside the computer. "Is it effective? Is it a hindrance to the story? Discuss in detail."

It was the words 'discuss in detail' that annoyed Gordon. He could answer the questions well enough in his own mind, but when it came to explaining them to someone like a teacher, he could barely get past yes or no. It didn't help that English wasn't his best subject. Had the assignment been in one of his science classes he knew that he would be able to pull it off, even if it meant staying up all night to write it up.

English, however, was a useless gesture, a bit of futile effort that was becoming stupider and stupider sounding to Gordon every time he tried to make an analysis of a novel or a poem or some other piece of literature.

Not for the first time that night, the ginger-haired teen turned to stare out the window and wished fervently that he was back in the pool, doing the one thing that he truly enjoyed with all of his soul. It was too bad that there were no marks in school for swimming, or he knew that he'd have his first ever A-plus in a high school class.

Minutes passed and Gordon continued to watch the water run, imagining the driving bodies of his team mates, their arms rising and falling in an effortless rhythmic pattern that pulled them through the water. If only he could . . .

Aggravation mounting in his mind, Gordon tossed the assignment sheet onto the nearby bed and turned to the computer. He knew that he shouldn't be goofing off, but he just couldn't bring himself to work on the report. Taking a break was the only thing that was appealing at the moment. That and thinking about a problem that had been troubling him for the past few days, a problem that stubbornly refused to be resolved.

As his lips pinched in frustration at his life in general, the boy brought up an instant messaging program and quickly signed in. He hoped that someone would at least be online that he could talk to, or he'd have to go back to working on his English assignment. There was the possibility of sneaking out and talking to someone in one of the other dorm rooms, but he didn't feel like taking the risk of getting caught by one of the hall monitors. It was close to midnight already and he doubted that his teachers would be pleased if he were up so late.

"Come on," he growled, subduing the urge to punch the desk in frustration. It wasn't that late back home on the island, but there were very few instances when any of his brothers were actually on the communications network. Brains had drawn up the instant messaging service as a reasonably secure method of communication amongst the family. Gordon had found it immensely helpful at first until his family at began to use it less and less, to the point that it was only checked occasionally. They rarely sought him out for conversation.

There were phones available to use, but Gordon just wasn't the type of person to sit down and have a chat with someone when he needed to talk. For all of the loud conversation that he made during the day, it really meant very little and did nothing other than amuse him during the hours between classes. For all of the talk that he did, he found it immensely hard to phone up one of his brothers and discuss something private with them.

But it was something very private that he needed to discuss, for running the idea through his own mind had led him to nothing but indecision. He actually needed to put forward the thoughts to someone else, to see what they had to say. There was just the problem of finding the will to actually do it.

As much as he hated to admit it, Gordon wasn't comfortable talking about life with his brothers. It was just like at school where he was known as the class joker, the comedian who could make anyone laugh and make anyone's day. Yet who was there to make his? It wasn't their fault, of course. He was perfectly capable of finding someone to talk who would be willing to listen.

He just didn't want to. There was something about serious issues that made him sweat, a threat of indescribable substance that threatened to take away from him something that he treasured. More than anything, Gordon was scared of losing the part of his life that made living fun. As much as he knew he would have to grow up someday, he desperately wanted to find a balance between the two that would suit him. Acting serious . . .

It hurt too much.

He sighed when the messaging service showed up as unused. It really didn't matter, he supposed, for he probably wouldn't have ended up talking about school with whomever sat on the other end anyway. The topic would have shifted to something casual, like girls or sports, or maybe the recent antics of his family, rescue service extraordinare.

_"This homework sucks."_ he finally typed in out of sheer boredom, knowing that no one would bother to answer. It had been that way almost since Virgil had graduated and Alan had been kicked out for causing trouble. Gordon had been left alone at the school, alone to fetch for himself and deal with his own problems. Constant isolation drove Gordon up the wall, more so than almost anything else in the world did. He liked being in the presence of others, to make them laugh, or to laugh along with them, and hated having to spend nights on his own doing work.

_"I wish I could talk to someone about this."_

_"Shoot."_

It was several moments before Gordon noticed the word, printed in black text, on the third line of the messaging program. His eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in suspicion as he realized that someone might be hacking into the program from the outside. The service had not informed him of any of his brothers entering the chat room, and the last thing that he needed was for someone to accidentally or intentionally discover something about him that they shouldn't know.

His cheeks flushing ever so slightly, Gordon responded to the single word query.

_"Who are you?"_

_"Look up. Look way up."_

"What the hell?" He shook his head, about to abort the program altogether, only to suddenly realize who it was that was speaking to him. It seemed slightly unlikely, for he had never known his brother to resort to something so . . . humorous sounding. But then again, he hadn't spoken to him face to face since Christmas – he hadn't been home for spring break - and even then he had only been around for a few days. But he _had_, once he thought about it, noticed something very different about his older brother than what he normally saw.

_"John?"_

_"Give the man a prize."_

A smile blossomed onto Gordon's face. Suddenly the night didn't seem quite so bad. He hadn't really planned on talking with John of all people, yet he couldn't really bring himself to _not_ talk to the one person that seemed to remember that he existed.

_"How'd you get in without triggering security?"_

_"Wouldn't you like to know?" _An evil emoticon followed. _"Gord, I spend my entire day up here spying on people."_

_"Why spy on me? Trying to catch me having some hot times with my girlfriend?"_

_"Gord, you don't have a girlfriend. Quit saying that you do, it's no use. Anyway, I have it set to trigger an alert when you log in."_

The alert was news to Gordon. _"Since when have you been spying on me?"_

_"Since last week. Felt kind of bad. Dad said we kept missing you when you were on, and he wondered if maybe I could keep an eye on you."_

_"Ha ha."_ Gordon grinned, slightly reassured that his family did remember that he existed. It was a stupid thought, really, for they always did check up on him. It was just hard on nights when he truly wanted company. _"Does he think I'm going to wreck the school or something?"_

_  
"Nah, I think he's more concerned about Alan in that regard. You only dump a bucket of water on people's heads when they're wearing their best suits."_ There was a very long pause before John continued. _"He was expelled from school again. Dad's pulling his hair out trying to find a place near you - again - that will take him. I don't think it's going to happen."_

The words slammed Gordon right in the gut. He knew how much potential his younger brother had, and it burned him to see the kid screwing around when he could actually be doing something important. Of course, the same was true with him, but he was trying to juggle schoolwork and swim practice at the same time. Alan couldn't say the same – he was just goofing off because he didn't want to be there. Gordon goofed off to relieve tension, and he couldn't help it if he found a bucket on some poor idiot's head funny.

_"Little bugger. Why doesn't he behave? He should have known better the first time. This is the second school now!"_

_  
"I seem to remember you doing nearly the same thing at that age. You weren't exactly well-behaved either."_

Gordon bristled at the remark. _"Funny. At least I'm working my ass off to finish school. Why doesn't he try? At least he's good at what he does."_

_"So why are you talking to me at midnight then? Don't you need sleep so you can be awake tomorrow?"_

It was irritating - how John could read his family members like an open book. Gordon really wasn't too sure how much he wanted to tell John. John had always been the other adult figure in the household, the serious person that wasn't supposed to be confided in. Confiding in John held the same appeal as the thought of confiding in his father.

And while Scott had always looked after Gordon and his brothers in an official sense, it was John who was focused about work and had always been on his brother's cases about schoolwork and the like. How did he explain his problem to John, the career perfectionist who would never in a million years dream of putting something ahead of his job?

It had never mattered before, for John had rarely sought out conversation with the rest of his family unless it was necessary. He had obviously enjoyed his time alone, and Gordon had not been one to normally intrude on it.

Yet, perhaps things had changed, Gordon mused. It wasn't that long ago that John had tried to dye his hair and had ended up nearly burning his scalp off with hydrogen peroxide. That was hardly responsible behaviour, considering that he'd left his post in the middle of a rescue mission. There were also all of the times that he had called down from the space station to simply talk – and those were only times when Gordon had been home to witness them.

Something had definitely changed. He was right, there was something different about his brother.

_"What colour's your hair?" _Gordon finally typed.

_"What type of question is that?"_ An odd and quizzical-looking emoticon appeared.

_"Well?"_

_"I don't know. Blond? White? It's hard to tell. The roots are showing really bad, though. I'd like to dye it again, but I'm a bit scared to. I had a rash for a week last time. It's just that I'm growing attached to it for some odd reason. Don't know, maybe my mind is going. It looks kind of cool, to tell you the truth. I guess I'll just have to be careful next time."_

A small part of Gordon's mind was settled by the odd revelation. The hair hardly looked perfect on his brother, and if John wanted to keep it just for the novelty of it all . . .

As strange as it felt to talk with his older brother like they were . . . brothers, it seemed more comforting than if he were talking with someone like Scott or Virgil. The other two were more open, though Scott was grave and Virgil quiet, but they were also prone to the teasing that was inherent in such a relationship. John, however, went about relationships in the same way that he went about his job.

He respected the material in question.

_"What's up?"_

Gordon could almost imagine John's quiet voice, a touch of concern coming through, asking the question. Though he had never ever had John ask him it, it was not hard to pretend that he had. The moment felt oddly familiar, something he had felt before.

_It's like talking to Mom,_ he realised with a start, _when we were kids. She'd never judge us, just listen and let us talk. Or she'd offer advice when we didn't have any of our own._ No one could replace his mother, but there was a startling similarity between her and John that he'd never really noticed before. Perhaps it was because John had never had the chance to speak to him before - in a manner that didn't involve disciplining or parenting - that he'd never made the comparison.

_"I've got a problem."_ He finally replied, feeling an immense weight come off his chest as someone else finally shared it with him.

_"English again?"_

_"Well yeah,"_ he gave the paper an evil glare,_ "but that's not it. I just don't want to do that."_

_"And you chastise Alan when he doesn't do his work."_

_"What the hell does that mean?"_

_"Berate."_

_"What?"_ Gordon shook his head in confusion. John didn't seem to be doing it on purpose, but the language that he was using sounded like riddles to the ginger-haired teen.

_"Criticise, accuse, that type of thing."_

Any of his other family members would have jumped on Gordon immediately, teased him – chastised him, Gordon thought with a smirk – for not knowing what the word meant. But John honestly seemed to care about him, didn't seem to want to judge him.

This, the teen thought curiously, from the guy who used to always be mad at him for one reason or another. Whether John had forgotten all of those times, or he simply didn't care, Gordon honestly didn't know. What he did know was that he wanted to tell John everything that he had wanted to talk about since Christmas break.

_"Hey . . ."_ Gordon finally typed absently.

_"Hmm?"_

_"I need to tell you something."_

_  
"Haven't you been saying that since we started talking?" _The winking emoticon didn't irritate Gordon, but instead made him laugh. John was right, he had been avoiding the topic.

_"Sure."_

_"So, for the third time tonight, what's up?"_

Gordon slowly typed in the words that he had been dying to share with someone since he had first found out. He had tried to tell Virgil over spring break - but had been scared that even the brother he was closest to would let the secret slip.

_"I've been accepted into the state swim team."_

There was a momentary pause, followed by a sudden outburst of random letters and symbols on the screen. It was as though John had lost his balance and fallen on the keyboard.

_"Seriously!"_

_"Yeah."_ Gordon grinned widely, suddenly wishing that he could have seen John's face when he told him. His brother seemed so genuinely excited about it, something that Gordon was not used to. Normally the interest that his family showed in his swimming was semi-forced, due to the fact that they all held the opinion that swimming was in many ways a useless venture. Even Virgil, who had such talent in the fine arts, had opted for a formal career in engineering.

There was no room in the Tracy family for games.

_"SERIOUSLY!"_

_"Seriously."_

_"Then what's wrong?"_

He was halfway through typing the words 'nothing's wrong' when some part of his brain told him to stop. The brush off would have been his typical answer to the question, but it was not a typical problem. Thankful that John couldn't see the embarrassment that was flooding his cheeks, Gordon erased his comment and began to work on another.

_"I can go to the Nationals in Florida this May. But I have to miss almost two weeks of school."_

_"That could be a problem,"_ was the immediate response. _"Isn't that close to the end of school?"_

_"Yeah. I can't catch up on that much work. But the coach said that he talked to my teachers, and they'd let me run overtime into the summer in order to catch up."_

_"That's nice of them."_

_"John, I want to graduate."_

It was so easy to talk over the computer. No one could see the red on his cheeks, or the essence of fear in his eyes. He felt so removed from the words, almost as if someone else were typing them.

_"Of course you do. If you buckle down after the swim meet you'll be fine."_

_"Yeah."_

Gordon knew that he would likely be angry with himself in the morning for coming clean with John, but at the moment he didn't care. Besides, he had been right about one thing – there was something different about John. He seemed more relaxed, more casual.

And he appeared to have a sense of humour. That alone made the conversation a hundred times less stressful than it would have been otherwise.

_"So, what's the issue then? What do you want to do?"_

Gordon stopped what he was doing and stared at the screen for a moment. What do you want to do . . . what was that supposed to mean? He had been expecting John to jump in and give him some sort of advice, but instead he simply –

Gave him the choice, more than anyone else had ever done. Gordon leaned back in his chair, considering the moment carefully. His own father had tried to control his life, telling him where to go to school, even to the point of trying to convince him to not join International Rescue when in fact Gordon had pretty much decided that he didn't want to anyway. Scott was always giving his opinion, trying to point him in the right direction. Virgil wasn't outright with his answers, but when he did give them they too were opinionated.

_"I don't know,"_ Gordon typed back immediately, both elated and unsettled at John's comment. _"I need to tell Dad."_

_"But?"_

_  
_How did he know that there was a 'but' coming, Gordon wondered. _"I'm-"_

_"You're what?"_

The word was so hard to type. _"Worried."_

_"About what?"_

_"That he'll say no. Because he's expecting me to join the business when I graduate."_

The next response, so quick in its reply, was soothing to Gordon's mind. _"That's all right."_

_"What?"_

_"It's okay to be scared. I was scared the first week that I was up here. It's perfectly normal."_

The revelation was startling. Gordon had always assumed that John was fearless, the way that he went about things with such a large degree of strength and determination. The thought of his older brother, scared and helpless, was almost unsettling.

_"Like hell you were."_ The words felt wrong even on his fingers. He knew they were wrong, but he typed then anyway. It was what he always did. _"What does this even have to do with swimming?"_

_"Loads. And yeah, I was scared like hell. Why would I lie to you?"_

"I-" Realizing that he was about to respond out loud, Gordon snapped his mouth shut and glared in irritation at the screen. _"I don't know."_

_"Exactly. Why don't you trust me?"_

That was a good question, one that Gordon thought he had known the answer to when the night had started - but was now beginning to think that the answer was not quite so simple. He tried to think of something to say, something that would calm John, something that would sound vaguely like the apology that he knew he should give.

He sat on the chair, mind completely tangled, and did nothing. Finally, on the screen appeared the words: _"If this is about that time when I strangled you, I'm sorry."_

It was about that, Gordon knew, and about every other time as well that he had ever done something immature to hurt or annoy his brother. It was not John that it affected, however, but himself. He knew that he had a history – still did – of causing trouble, and more than anything he expected certain responses from his family because of that.

_"It was my fault."_

_"No,"_ Gordon jumped in immediately, _"it wasn't. I was being stupid."_

_"So was I. Trust me when I say this – I would never do anything to hurt any of you, including lying to you when you need to be told the truth. 'Kay? Just because you're stupid sometimes doesn't mean that you're not my brother."_

Gordon's cheeks flushed at the bluntness of the comment. _"Cripes, how do you do it?"_ So much for escaping the teasing . . .

_"Do what?"_

_"Make me feel like punching you in the face."_

_"For being right?"_

_"Yeah."_ The words came from Gordon's mouth as he typed them. _"Bloody know-it-all."_

_"Potty mouth."_

_"Then why're you still talking to me?"_

_"Because there's no one else to talk to."_

Gordon's finger stopped halfway above the keys, the truth of the comment finally sinking in. _"I thought you liked being alone?"_

_"I like being left alone. It bothers me when people forget I exist."_

The words were so much like the ones that he himself had thought earlier, Gordon noticed in amazement. He had never really thought about John that way before – but then, many things had changed between the two since they had began to talk. John likely hadn't noticed it, but Gordon sure did.

_"Like when they think about you all the time? When the wonder if you're all right? Is that what you mean?"_

_"Sure it is. 'Cause if I ever need anything, I know they'll be up here in a second."_

_"Like if you kill yourself?"_

_"It's not so funny. D'you know how dangerous it is up here? There are practically no defence systems. I could be taken out by a meteorite at close range, and I wouldn't know until I'm plastered against a wall."_

Gordon's face furrowed in disgust. He'd always assumed that the station was perfectly safe from natural disaster. Of course, that didn't explain the escape capsule that Brains was still trying to perfect. _"Then why are you up there?"_

_"Because someone has to do it."_

My brother the martyr, Gordon thought absently, wondering if John had taken to heart the time that Alan and Virgil had bothered him about being a superhero. _"Cripes John, you don't have to."_

_"Cripes Gordon, don't you listen?"_

_"I just think that you'd be lonely up there. Aren't you worried?"_

_"Sure, but what about you? You're the one that keeps bringing up the topic. Both of them, I might add."_

His mouth hanging open slightly, Gordon snorted and responded, _"Am not."_ He was only going so far with the conversation, and he drew the limit right there. There was no way that he was talking to _any_ of his brothers about his feelings of loneliness, at least not directly. There was just no way.

_"Fine. So, what're you going to tell Dad?"_

"I don't know," Gordon breathed out loud, stopping from typing it into the keyboard. He was sick of being indecisive. He never was most of the time. It was out of character for him, an uncontrollable combination of fear and uncertainty that bothered him greatly. He was used to jumping headlong into a situation, laughing at his troubles, and making the best of things.

He couldn't do that, though. Not with something that he cared about so much. He had to handle it carefully, so that the outcome was just what he wanted.

_"I'll tell him."_

_"Good. It'll work out. He'll understand."_

Gordon wasn't quite so sure about that, given how his father felt about his extracurricular activities. But he hoped that something as prestigious as going to the Nationals would grab Jeff Tracy's attention and make him bite.

_"If he doesn't understand, I'll make sure he does."_

_"Thanks."_

_"Anytime. I'm always up here."_

A smile once again broke onto Gordon's lips, and he realized that it had somehow left minutes earlier.

_"I don't mind talking. We didn't do it enough when we were kids. I feel like I should know you better than I do."_

There it was, written plain as day on the computer screen. How he wanted to yell 'yes!', to tell his brother that he was right, that something had been missing and that he had been wrong in many of his assumptions.

_"Sure, whatever."_

Why did it never come out the way that it sounded in his head?

_"I've got some homework to do, 'Kay?"_

Immaturity was addicting. Even when he tried to be serious, to say one thing that might be important, he never could. It stopped seeming like a good idea as the words left his mouth. Instead, it always twisted into some funny joke or something that would make him or someone else laugh.

_"Okay, just give me a call if you need help."_

He wondered if John was laughing at him.

_"I'm good. 'Night John."_

_"G'dnight Gord."_

Clicking off the messenger program, Gordon sat a long moment at his desk before he even made a move to pick up the paper. Tomorrow, the next day, he was going to call his father and tell him that he needed two weeks off from school to go to a swimming competition. The thought nearly scared him witless, but he was going to do it anyway. He was going to tell him, grin, laugh, and take whatever his father said in stride.

The assignment sheet glimmered on the edge of the bed, teasing him. He desperately wanted to goof off, wanted to forget about it, wanted to go to sleep laughing about throwing the sheet in the garbage. But if he couldn't do one assignment, Gordon knew that he would never be allowed to leave for Florida. The two would go hand in hand, if he knew his father the way he thought he did.

"It's just you and me now." He grinned at the paper, giving the assignment an evil look. "What's say we dance, and I step on your feet a bit?"

Outside, the rain had let up slightly, and the full moon was beginning to shine through the poplar trees. The night was calm, and on the ocean it would be clear sailing in the morning.

* * *

**A/N:** If that's not a teaser chapter than I don't know what is. It's also a set-up chapter, so everyone should know what's going to happen in the next ones after it. :) A huge thank-you goes out to Ariel D, who graced this chapter with her red pen of marking plus five. ;) Without her help, I'm sure Gordon would show even more signs of not understanding the English language.

**Zeilfanaat** – You're back! (grin) I'm glad to hear that the scorpion made you laugh. The next few chapters are going to get progressively darker and more serious, so I thought I'd put in a little slapstick while I can. It's good to have you back:D  
**Ladc** – Hey, no problem! I'm a bit behind with posting, so . . . :P  
**Mcj** – Don't put your stories down like that:o It was reading "Tales of a Grandmother" that gave me the courage to write something like long, because I knew that people out there would be willing to read it since they had stuck with your work. :)  
**Rachie Loves Donald Duck** – It's great to see that you're making this long and tedious journey with us. Thanks for reading!  
**Ms. Imagine** – Thank you! I can't remember how many times I've edited the John and Scott conversation at this point . . . quite a few, I think.  
**Barb from Utah** – Thank you! It was a challenge to try and figure out how all of the brothers would interact with each other at this point in time. And jealousy is definitely a part of it, as you will see in coming chapters.  
**Andrewjameswilliams** – Yeah, I think you're right there; Virgil would be on a rampage if someone pulled a prank with his ship. ;) Hopefully Gordon won't get it in his mind to do that, or Alan, or Tin-Tin for that matter . . .  
**Numbuh 14** – I'm glad that you liked it! Alan is definitely in for some hard times, considering that everyone else is growing up and he's still stuck in school. The next little bit won't make it any easier for him.  
**Opal Girl** – Thank you! I didn't like her as much in the tv-series either. I always thought she had to be hiding half a brain somewhere in order to work on her engineering studies. ;) Definitely keep Gordon's ambivalence in mind for the next little bit.  
**Marblez** – Hopefully this update will work for you. ;)  
**Math Girl** – Oh yes, he'd better watch his back, especially with Tin-Tin around now. ;) I'll confess, John's character gets more screen time than the rest do . . . but I can't help it. (sighs) He's my favorite . . . Thanks for the kind words! They mean a lot to me. :)  
**Assena** – Tin-tin and Scott and Virgil will have a little interaction, but not as much as I would like in coming chapters. I would have loved to have developed that, but it was one of the interactions that I had to cut down on due to time constraints when I was writing this.

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Ladies and Gentlemen, drum roll please. Next chapter begins Part 1 of 5 of a saga of triumph, failure, death, and re-birth. Please be on the look-out for "Racing" in the near future. Until then, FAB all! 


	29. Racing

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Dislcaimer:_ Thunderbirds is the property of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, as well as Carlton and Universal. No profit is intended to be made from this story; it is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended, and none should be inferred. All original characters are the property of the author. This story should not be used or copied without the expressed written consent of the author. _

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AN1:_ To honor this web-site's new review-response policy, I will be posting responses and extended author notes on my author profile page instead. I will update it every time I post a chapter, which saves myself the time of sending out review responses over this web-site and allows everyone to see what I have said to others. Please have a look. :D  
_AN2:_ Thus begins the final saga of "The Winds of Advent", a five part story arc entitled "Blood Is Thicker Than Water" which will take you through triumph, death, despair, and renewal. Let the race begin. **

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**Blood is Thicker Than Water: Part I**

**Racing**

**May 2019**

As was expected from a young man that was so energetic during the day, Gordon Tracy was often prone to intense and vivid dreams while sleeping. Most of them involved some sort of water, generally a pool, and ended with him winning some sort of award. They all, however, without question, finished with him waking up in his bed with the realisation that the dream had been just that – a dream.

Looking out across the vast waters of the Florida coast, Gordon couldn't help but note that his dreams had generally been more colorful. The real waters before him were grey and stormy, and the sky was not the normal sapphire blue of his mind, but a dark and penetrating black that suggested thunderstorms and torrential rains.

Whatever it looked like, however, it could not ruin the growing excitement in the pit of his stomach. He had finally made it. Amidst a group of brothers who nearly all gone into technical careers, against perhaps the better judgement of his father, in spite of the jeers and jokes of his former schoolmates – he was set to swim at the National competition in Tampa Beach.

Spreading his arms in the air, Gordon took a deep breath, trying to take in the moment and engrave it into his mind forever. No matter how wonderful the dreams had been, what he was experiencing was the_ real thing, _and he had no intention of forgetting it. Every wisp of salty air that entered his lungs, every draft of wind across his forehead . . .

It was _his_ moment, his week, and he wanted to embrace. It was what he had waited his entire life for, the time when he could finally prove himself good at something. The moment when he could stand on a podium, smile at the world, and look at his brothers and yell, "Look at me! Look at what I've done!" Maybe it wasn't a college degree. Maybe it wasn't a Medal of Bravery from the air force. Maybe it wasn't a scholarship offer to the best engineering school in the country.

But it was something.

In twenty-six hours, he was going to jump in a pool with seven other young men that would be just as determined as he to win. They would wait at the start line, feet pressed against the starting platforms, eyes directed downward towards the crystal waters of the race pool. Then the gun would fire, the bodies would arch, the water would fly, and the race would begin.

More terrified, yet more overjoyed than he had ever been in his life, Gordon closed his eyes and replayed one more time in his mind his dream, the dream where he had won the gold and had raised the medal over his head in triumph. He was going to realize that dream the next day.

He knew it.

* * *

"For the love of everything sacred, Scott, hold the camera still. You're making me seasick." 

Grinning at the sound of John's voice, Scott carefully balanced his digital video camera on the railing in front of him. From where he sat in the stands, he had a wonderful view of the pool, unobstructed by the heads of other people or by television cameras that were trying to get a piece of the action. Gordon wasn't out on the deck yet, but when he finally came out it would be easy enough to find him.

Reaching up to adjust the microphone on his hidden headset ever so slightly, Scott whispered back, "Sorry John, it's pretty windy out here."

From a small speaker in Scott's ear, John's voice replied, "My sensors are registering nothing but a light breeze. The only wind in Tampa Beach right now is coming from your mouth."

Sitting next to Scott, Jeff Tracy smiled slightly and gave his son a secretive look from the corner of his eye. "Scott, your radio is up pretty loud. You might want to turn it down."

"Well, the broadcaster is talking pretty loud."

John's voice continued speaking from the headset. "I demand a different camera person."

Turning to his father, Scott muttered, "The broadcaster says he wants a different camera person."

"Here," Jeff gestured toward himself, "turn it towards me."

Obliging, Scott redirected the camera towards his father and turned up the volume reading ever so slightly.

"To whomever may be watching this, you'd better sit and be quiet, because you'd rather have Scott doing the camera work than me." The older man gave the camera a grin full of teeth, then turned back to watch the action around the pool.

"I could find a satellite up-link that's better," John finally decided, though Scott thought his voice lacked a certain joy to it that it had had a few minutes earlier. "Give me five minutes. I'll find one. Wait, I have the national station that's carrying it." There was a pause. "Cripes, they have lousy color. What is this supposed to be, an amateur broadcast? That's it, I'm turning back to your frequency. And it'd better be stationary now."

A smile curved onto Scott's lips, and he intentionally jiggled the camera around just enough to fuzz the picture. There was something perversely enjoyable about annoying John, though he always felt guilty about it after the fact. It was just that some people's buttons were easier to push than others, and John had a whole keyboard of them ready to be depressed. "Whoops, looks like the wind is picking up again."

"You're despicable!"

"Just remember, John – you could have Dad doing the camera work." Glancing up at the sky and seeing nothing but blue, Scott smiled and turned once again to his father. "You know, he has a great day for this. The weather couldn't be better."

Nodding, Jeff looked out over the railing as, faintly visible against the myriad of other swimmers, Gordon sat down on the pool deck and began to stretch. "I know what you mean. I hope nothing goes wrong. After yesterday's weather, I was beginning to think they'd have to postpone the race."

"They won't. Unless the wind picks up again, it'll be fine. It's not supposed to get windy again until later, anyway." Scott, perhaps more than any other member of the family, truly had faith in his brother. Gordon had a tendency to goof off, but when it involved something that he cared about personally he was without doubt the most dedicated member of the family. When he wanted something, truly and deeply with all his heart, he generally managed to get it.

"How can he be so calm?" John muttered via radio.

The comment was an interesting one. Normally, Scott knew, he and John would act the same as Gordon was out on the deck. It was not in their personalities to be loose and immature at important occasions, yet the tension of the moment had found wonderful relief in he and John's casual bantering back and forth.

Scott grinned. "He's focused, John. It's like having a runner's high. Adrenaline kicks in, emotions turn off, body goes into overdrive."

"Ah. I see. The last time I did something like that I threw up on some poor man's loafers at NASA."

"Scott, how long until the race?"

"Hold on, John," Scott said, "Dad wants to know something." Fishing around for the program with his free hand, Scott finally found it buried in the camera bag under his feet. He flipped it open and scanned up and down the paper until the time he was looking for jumped out at him. "Dad, race starts in fifteen. Sorry, John, what were you saying?"

"Oh, nothing important. Just reminiscing about the good ole' days."

The entire conversation was beginning to seem like a hodgepodge of words to Scott. The atmosphere in the arena was contagious, and he was starting to wonder if he was inheriting the nervousness that his brother seemed to be able to shrug off so easily. Gordon looked so calm, even to Scott's eye, as though he was lost somewhere in a dream version of reality.

Fifteen minutes, and then the race would start. To Scott Tracy, safely up in the stands with no pressure on him but to keep his camera study, those fifteen minutes seemed like an eternity.

* * *

_"Stroke. Breathe. Catch the water, turn it under. Foot kick, push off the wall, do it again."_

"Tracy, you ready?"

Of course he was ready. Gordon Tracy was ready for anything – and if he knew his friend Jason Hurk well enough, then he knew the other boy was also prepared. Though brown-haired Hurk didn't have a particularly agile swimmer's build, it was his determination that had carried him to the finals. It was that strength - that nerve - which Gordon wanted to be able to harness and use once again.

_"Keep the hand cupped, streamlined. Don't turn a flat angle to the water." _

"Sure, Hurk, what d'ya think? I've been ready for this moment my entire life."

_"Cycle of breaths, one stroke then breathe once. Too often and you'll take on water, too little and you'll sink. Butterfly is hard, boys. Don't try and pull an endurance swim on it."_

"Guess it was a stupid question. Hey, good luck, though! You're gonna bring home the gold for us, right?"

_"Two laps to go, keep the arms moving, Tracy! Don't slow down."_

"Ah, heck, Hurk. You've got as good a shot as me."

_"Lead the pack!"_

"Like hell, everyone knows you're gonna win it for us. But good luck."

He could already feel the adrenaline, as though his body was immersed in the water and he was dreaming that he was on dry land.

"Sure, good luck. Maybe try and take home the silver, 'kay?"

The other swimmers looked so professional. Was he even any match for them?

"These guys look serious, Tracy. 'Specially that one from Iowa. Jesus, he's giving you a look to kill. Think you can take him?"

It'd be a fight, but he'd give it his best shot. He was going to be one with the water, was going to leave the other bodies in his wake.

"He couldn't beat me in a paddle pool."

Two minutes. Two minutes, and he was terrified inside and ready to pass out.

"Right on, Tracy. That's the attitude. That's what coach would say. Too bad he's not here to see it."

But his family was. There they were, in the stands, waving to him.

"He's watching at home. At least he'll see us somehow."

"Hey, is that your Dad?"

"Sure is." Gordon grinned, and waved in the direction of the stands.

"Good luck for you. My dad couldn't come. He's at home watching it on our set."

"Too bad. Maybe he'll come to the next one."

"Yeah. Hey Gord, big man's coming. Time to get set."

There came the head official, rounding up the swimmers.

"Time to go. Good luck, man."

"You too."

Platform three. His platform, the place where he would begin the best race that he had ever swum in his life. In the distance, wavering in the Florida heat, he could just make out the other side of the pool and the red line painted on the wall. The red line – the place where he would finish the best race of his life.

Taking a deep breath, Gordon positioned himself on the platform and prepared himself for the moment that he'd been dreaming of for nearly four years, since the time that his coach had first told him he might have a shot at making the national team. Maybe in the dream it had been an Olympic gold medal, but Gordon truly didn't care.

Gold was gold, and he was bringing it home.

He could hear them cheering, even amidst the voices of a thousand other people. Scott's voice was loud, the trained words of a man who had been taught to yell in the armed forces. His father's voice, that of company executive used to delivering speeches, also carried out over the people, over the water, and buried itself somewhere at the back of Gordon's mind.

"Gordon!"

The platform felt warm beneath his feet. The freshly painted wood, not the normal plastic used by most pools, was almost alive, pulsing in his palms as he leaned forward and balanced on the edges of his hands.

The man raised the starting gun into the air.

"Gordon, you can do it!"

John was watching too, somewhere up in space. Virgil was too, back home at the island, staying back just in case a rescue call came in. Alan would probably have found a television at school - and was skipping class just to watch.

"Ready!"

Was he ready?

The gun went off with the sound of a sonic boom.

* * *

With all the water flying everywhere, John found it hard to tell where his brother was and where the rest of the swimmers were around him. The pool was only eight lanes, with Gordon being in the third nearest to the stands that Scott and his father sat at, but it was still almost impossible to distinguish specific forms. Anxiety gnawed at him, and John fervently wished that he were actually at the pool, standing beside his brother and father and cheering at the top of his lungs for Gordon to win. 

There _had_ to be a better angle.

An idea – a very, very illegal idea – came to mind, and John quickly flipped on the nearest computer screen. It wouldn't be that hard to borrow the satellite, given that it wasn't government owned but was instead used by a home retail company to chart and sell property . . . and the chances his position being found from the link would be very little.

"There we are," he sighed in relief, as a crisp and clear overhead image of the pool flashed onto the main screen. The resolution wasn't spectacular, but from the overhead angle he could clearly make out the ant sized forms of eight young men trying their hardest to take home the gold. "I am going to catch hell for this later."

* * *

"Gordon!" Half sitting, half-standing on the couch, Virgil pumped his fists in the air as his brother made the switch over at the end of the pool. There were still three laps to go, but Gordon was leading the swimmer from Iowa by a fraction of a second. Their strokes were almost synchronised, both young men coming up for air at the same time, both kicking and pulling back the water with their arms at the same time. 

He didn't care that he was at home watching from the living room, and he also didn't care that he was likely drawing odd looks from the Belagants and Brains who were watching – quite passively, he noted – along with him.

"Kick his ass!"

Brains and Kyrano traded amused expressions, and continued to watch the screen in silence. From the far side of the room, Tin-Tin stared intently at the screen, eyes focused on the blurry image of Gordon Tracy.

The television blared at full volume. "Folks, I don't know if you can see this, but Gordon Tracy from the Oregon State Team is leading the pack, only two hundredths of a second off of Simon Towers from Iowa State!"

Pumping his fists again, Virgil jumped fully to his feet as Gordon approached the end of the second lap of four. "You can do it, Gord! I know you can!"

* * *

"He's gonna win!" Alan screamed, banging his fist on the table in the school cafeteria. On the screen, located high on the far wall, his brother was beginning the third lap of the race. Alan knew little about swimming save that the stroke they were doing was the butterfly, but it was obvious to him – based on the television reporter's comments – that Gordon was likely going to win. 

"T-t-t-think so?"

Alan turned to Fermat and nodded anxiously. "He's gonna win!"

As long as no teacher came in to see what the yelling was about, they'd even be able to see the end of the race. Alan really didn't care if he was caught – he was getting sick of the school already, and he didn't want to miss the race for anything.

"Gordon! Go!"

* * *

The moment was absolutely unreal. The crowd of the arena literally stood up as one, lifting their arms in the air, cheering for every single one of the swimmers down in the pool. 

Scott knew for whom he was cheering. He also knew that he was supposed to be holding the camera steady, but he somehow thought that John would be able to find a better video to watch. There was no holding in the shear excitement of the moment. It was incomparable, more emotional and intense than anything in the world.

"Gordon!"

There was their father, the façade of the executive removed for a few minutes, screaming at the top of his lungs for his boy to win.

There was Gordon, on the last lap of the race, butterfly still going strong, focused in on the point at the end of the pool that signified victory.

He was going to win. He had to win.

Scott raised his fists in the air and joined in the din at the top of his lungs. "Come on Gord, you can do it!"

* * *

For a period of about two minutes, Gordon Tracy was only aware of three things – the water around him, the air above the water, and his body that carried him between the two mediums. But then, suddenly, his mind took in and accepted the presence of a fourth identity: 

The red stripe on the far wall of the pool.

Four laps. Four laps, then he was supposed to pour his entire strength into the race, give his all, touch the wall before anyone else. That was the principle behind winning.

The noise of the race, the water splashing, the cheering, the gasping of air, faded into the background, and the sound of his beating heart resounded in his ears. _Badump_, his pulse beat every time he took another stroke, every time a long second passed and he became that much closer to the finish line.

_Badump_. He was running out of air, his muscles were screaming for more oxygen.

_Badump_. A dark shape to his right lunged forward, and for a brief moment was ahead of him in the water.

_Badump_. He would not let himself lose.

The one-second interval between the last heartbeat and the moment when his fingers touched the wall was the longest second of his entire existence. Time slowed to a halt, and his body floated through the water, riding on a wave of euphoria, until he could feel the hard cement of the pool edge smash into his skin.

As his body touched the wall, everything returned to normal. Time, the noise of the stadium erupting into deafening cheers, his vision that had been reduced to a single flash of red for nearly two minutes . . . it all returned.

Gordon Tracy exploded from the water, raising his fist wearily into the air – ignoring the searing pain that ran down his arm from the exhaustion – and screamed with every ounce of strength that he had left in him. There, on the screen, were the words:

_Gordon Tracy – Oregon: 1st Place._

He was distantly aware of his family jumping the railing of the stands to come to and greet him. Scott caught him and ruffled his hair, and John's voice cheered on ecstatically from some hidden speaker in the background. The entire moment blurred together into a single montage of noise and sound, ending with him collapsing into his father's arms only to be forced upward onto another platform.

A podium. It was so much like a dream that Gordon nearly pinched himself to see if he were awake. The bronze medal was given out, then the silver, which went to the swimmer from Iowa who looked distinctly irritated that he had lost.

"The Gold Medal goes to Gordon Tracy, Oregon State Team."

And just like it had happened thousands of times before while he had been asleep, a tall and dignified looking man lifted a gold medal and wrapped it around Gordon's neck. Just like he had a thousand times before, Gordon took the medal in his hands, kissed it once, and raised it towards the sky. For all of the people that had helped him reach the podium, he knew whom it was that he wanted to thank. He had done it over and over in his dreams, and only one name ever sounded right in his mind.

_Hey, Mom. This one's for you._

* * *

"Hey man, beer?" 

Gordon laughed and shook his head, politely declining the offer. "Come on Hurk, you know I have to race tomorrow. I'd be screwed over if I had anything."

The other boy laughed in return, and raised his bottle in a salute to his team-mate. "Whatever floats your boat. Me, I'm gonna get pissed tonight and enjoy the moment, because there's no way in hell that I'm winning any medals here. Shit, you've been in one race and you already have a gold."

Fingering the medal that still hung around his neck, Gordon grinned and shrugged nonchalantly. "Whatever."

The two young men stood side by side by the boat docks of one of Tampa Beach's many marina's, and watched the yachts bob up and down in the gently rolling froth. The marina and its buildings had been reserved by the organizers of the competition as a place for the athletes to relax during the evening hours. Gordon found the atmosphere, one of water and water-craft, especially calming, and he was thankful that the committee had had the foresight to pick such a fitting place for the night-time parties.

They obviously had not planned the alcohol - which had been quickly distributed to all involved as they had walked in the door - for there were many athletes present that were under the legal drinking age. That hadn't stopped the older men from bringing out the six-packs. On any other night Gordon would have been tempted to join in, but he understood the importance of having a clear mind during a race. He had no intentions of having a hang over during the freestyle event the next day.

Off on another dock, a loud and raucous cheer went up. A black form went flying off into the air, landing with a resounding splash in the water that doused the other people standing alongside. One figure stood alone at the end of the dock and raised his fist in the air in triumph.

"Towers probably threw him in," Hurk spat, tossing his brown hair out of habit, for there was no water in it to shake out. "That son of a bitch should get tossed in the water himself."

"You know him?"

"Yeah." The other boy gave the shadowy figure a dark look and spit contemptuously onto the wooden dock. "Met him last year at one of the sponsored competitions. Guy's got an ego the size of the moon."

Gordon looked briefly over at the crowd, who were fishing the victim out of the water, and had wondered how drunk the other young men were. "Wouldn't doubt it. I thought he was gonna kill me when I was up on the podium." The redhead shook his head. "I don't give a shit what he thinks, though. I won fair and square. He's got nothing to bitch about except his own short-comings."

"You mean he has them?" The other boy grinned and took a long swig from his drink. "Seriously, Tracy, I was grinning like a madman, and I lost the race _completely_, because of the look that Towers had on his face when you kicked his ass."

"I bet."

Instead of responding, Hurk gave his bottle of beer a sullen look and gestured towards the marina. "Come on, I'm out of drink. Let's go grab some more."

Shrugging in sympathy, Gordon followed his teammate back to the building.

* * *

"Sure is nice out." Leaning out over the balcony of the hotel room, Scott Tracy grinned and looked back in to where his father lay sprawled out over the bed. "I could get used to it." 

The older man snorted and continued to relax. "You boys are becoming spoiled with all the palm trees around. Maybe we should relocate to Siberia for a bit."

Scott considered that for a moment, then dismissed the thought as quickly as it had been proposed. "I'd rather not." Far out in the distance, in the direction of the water, he could distinctly make out the roof of the marina rising above the surrounding homes. A dull noise drifted from that direction, a mirage of voices and cheering that had to originate at the party that his brother was at.

"I hope Gordon's not stupid enough to drink tonight. He's got a race tomorrow morning."

"He won't." Jeff rolled over on the bed so that he could look his son in the eye. "Believe me, Scott, when I say that nothing in this world could stand between him and winning the rest of his races. When he came to ask me if he could miss school . . ." The Tracy patriarch shook his head as if at the thought of the memory. "I've never seen your brother so serious about anything. I don't think I could have said no if I'd wanted to."

Scott nodded in response, thinking back to how dedicated his brother could be when he set his mind to something. "Yeah. Truth be told, though, I wasn't expecting him to win today. I guess I didn't know how good he really was. I mean, I knew that he liked to swim, but I'd never dreamt . . ."

The night was clear and crisp, and a warm Atlantic wind rustled Scott's hair, keeping him awake even though the hour was late. He stood silently on the edge of the world, looking over to the marina, wondering how Gordon's aptitude with swimming had passed by him unnoticed. He more than any of his brothers openly defended the red-head's actions the most, yet even he had unintentionally ignored Gordon in the past few months.

"Think he'll win tomorrow?"

"I'd like to see that," his father called from inside. "Because he also asked me something else."

"Hmm?"

"He wants to apply for WASP when he graduates."

Scott's eyes went wide at the announcement. "Geeze, that's a pretty big goal." And it was true – the elite unit, known as the World Aquanaut Security Patrol, only accepted the best of both swimmers and scholars, and he honestly didn't know if his brother was up to the academic challenge. "What are the requirements?"

"High. But if he buckles down these last few months, I think he can make it. His physical qualifications are more than high enough."

Hearing the proclamation from the mouth of his father gave it a significant impact. Scott smiled grimly, and banged his hands unconsciously against the railing. "This swim meet won't help him any with his grades."

He didn't say what was actually on his mind, though. In fact, he had no intention of bringing the topic up with his father at all.

"I'm a bit disappointed." The older man returned Scott's grim smile from the bed. "I was hoping that he would be willing to work with us. But it really is Gordon's choice."

"It's not as if WASP is a bad choice to begin with," Scott added quietly, more than disappointed that his brother would not be joining the team any time soon. "They do the same thing that we do."

"Generally."

The conversation was rapidly dying, and Scott – seeing no need to continue to hash about at Gordon's expense – simply shrugged and turned back to the scenery outside.

The older man yawned deeply, and fluffed the pillow under his head a bit. "Scott, I think I'm going to turn in. You're younger than me – stay up if you want."

"No." Turning away from the railing, Scott pulled the balcony door closed tight behind him. "I should probably get some sleep as well. If we're going to be up early tomorrow, I'd better have enough rest so that I can hold the camera without jostling it around." He glanced back at the window one more time, then thought better of going back out. "Gord will be fine."

* * *

His eyes narrowing ever so slightly in irritation, Gordon Tracy wondered why on Earth he had even bothered to follow Hurk into the marina. Almost everyone in the building was drinking some form of beer or another, some even taking in hard liquor. What was certain, however, was that Simon Towers was as sober as Gordon was. It was both frightening and startling at the same time, for it showed a dedication and intellect in the other man that was completely unexpected. 

The older boy, his piercing blue eyes darting from person to person, stood near the beer table, and was only giving out drinks to those he seemed to like. From Hurk's angry expression, Gordon didn't have to even hear the conversation to know what was happening.

"Jesus, Towers, you don't own the goddamn beer. All I want is one can!" He raised his hands and roughly shoved the young man from Iowa forward.

The entire crowd seemed to stop and, as one, turn to watch Simon Towers' reaction. No one spoke, and Gordon wished that he could simply melt into the floor and escape the situation altogether. Hurk was his team-mate as well as a good friend, but Gordon _did_ have limits as to how far he was willing to go for someone who was 'just a friend'. The last thing that he wanted to do was end up in a brawl with the older – and much stronger, by the looks of it – boy, who was now sneering.

"Dammit, is that you Jason Hurk?" Towers grimaced and began to look about the room again. "I thought I recognized you in the race. This takes the cake, though – I mean, I could beat you even if you were sober, but this is disgraceful! You can't even walk!"

Hurk stumbled backwards in a drunken fashion, and once again raised his hands. "Yeah, well, I remember you, too." He slurred his words horribly, and Gordon was worried that his friend would trip over something as small as a loose nail. "You wanna pick a fight with me?"

"With you?" Towers laughed incredulously and shook his head. "I have better things to do. Why would I risk hurting myself when I have a chance to win tomorrow?"

A livid red seeped onto Hurk's face, making the veins on his neck stand out like writhing snakes. "You bastard. Tracy's going to kick your sorry ass back to Iowa tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that!"

For the briefest of moments, a complex look of anger and jealousy passed across the other man's face. It was gone as soon as it appeared, however, to be replaced by the young man's trademark look of pure egoism. "Tracy? Don't make me laugh. Today was a fluke. That will become quite apparent tomorrow when I run over him in the Freestyle event."

"Like shit you will!"

"No," Towers replied quite calmly, "that's what his rich father will be scraping off the walls when I'm finished lapping him."

The words scraped at Gordon's mind, but he mentally slapped himself down and willed himself to remain calm. He had to remain inconspicuous in the crowd, or he would risk getting dragged into the verbal sparring match. Any other night he likely would have joined in, simply for the pleasure of seeing a person like Simon Towers taking a beating, but there was too much at stake. One fight, one wrong punch, and he would be disqualified from the entire competition.

"Towers-" Hurk began.

"If," Towers continued, "I had any respect for him, then I might be willing to accept your comments for the nonsense that they are. But I have to disagree, because, you see, I respect Gordon Tracy as much as I respect you."

Stay calm, Gordon though to himself, though he could feel the colour rising in his cheeks. _He's just full of himself, it doesn't matter . . ._

"That family is a joke. His father? He could pay for this entire competition out of his lunch money. The family lives on an island. They have everything handed to them on a silver plate."

As the words became more and more personal, Gordon found it harder and harder to maintain his self-control. He could feel himself physically shaking with the strain, and it was only a matter of time before something snapped. He couldn't even leave the room, for Towers would likely spot him on the way out.

"He's never had it hard in his life!" The other boy's words suddenly became very bitter, and he angrily punched at the table behind him. The bottles of beer rattled and one tipped over and rolled off the table, falling and smashing onto the floor. "Rich boys. The entire lot of them. They don't even work, I've heard. His brothers are a bunch of lazy louts that sit at home, and his Dad signs papers all day and makes billions."

The one part of Gordon's brain that wasn't already mentally beating the other boy to death decided that it was time to either leave - or to bring his fruitful imaginations to reality.

"If _I_ had it as easy as Tracy does, I'd be winning the gold too!"

Say it one more time, Gordon thought as he slowly pushed his way through the crowd towards the young man.

I dare you. Say it.

"Bunch of worthless snobs. Every single one of them."

Many years back, Gordon had decided that it was never worth it to fight over something that involved only him. That thought had saved him from trouble on several occasions – yet, he still managed to find someone to punch at least several times a year. Rude words about him – he could ignore those. And with another race coming the next morning, he had come to the party with no intention of doing anything that could jeopardise his chances.

But rude comments about his family? Those practically carried the death penalty. Some things were more important than a simple race, and his brothers and father were definitely in that category.

The crowd parted before him, allowing him to step up to the beer table with remarkable ease. Several moments passed before Towers took notice of him, the other boy being a good half a foot taller at least.

Sneering, Towers remarked, "Look who finally wandered in from his private oasis."

"Watch what you say about my family," Gordon replied as calmly as he could, "or you won't be taking part in any race tomorrow."

His face clouding over briefly, the other boy seemed to weigh in his mind the two courses of action that were open for him. "We both know," he finally acknowledged at some length, "that neither of us is going to get in a fight. You're not stupid, Tracy. Filthy rich, maybe, but not stupid."

A growl escaped Gordon's lips, and he tightened his fists at his sides. As much as he hated to admit it, Towers had a point. He really had no intention of fighting, no matter how angry he was with the other boy, and Towers obviously knew the implications of fighting as well.

"I'm not gonna stand here and let you insult my family."

Towers shrugged, then absently grabbed a beer can from behind his back and tossed it in Hurk's direction. The can smacked into the young man's forehead with a thud, sending him sprawling to the ground, unconscious.

"Fair enough. Why don't we settle it, then?"

"What're you trying to pull? Can't we deal with this tomorrow?"

"Nothing." Towers gave a very suave grin - and sauntered slightly in the direction of the door. "I just think that we can resolve this like the gentlemen that we are. Your daddy wouldn't want you to be fighting now, would he? And I don't think we want to risk ruining the race tomorrow because of a lack of concentration."

It had to end there; Gordon refused to stand by and be insulted by the pompous bastard in front of him, let alone be forced to play by his rules. Yet, he had no option – if his father found out that he had been fighting . . . And he, like Towers, had no intention of ruining the race in the morning. No, the issue had to be settled that night.

"Fine." The word was practically ripped from his throat. "What'd you have in mind?"

"Why not a race?" Towers shrugged nonchalantly, while the crowd simply stood by and watched. "Something other than swimming."

"Maybe."

Towers looked at the roof for a moment, thought, then snapped his fingers. "I assume you know how to drive a boat?"

It was incredible, Gordon thought, how the asshole managed to insult with nearly every one of his waking breaths. "Of course I can."

"Oh right, I forgot, you live on an island. How stupid of me."

Several men in the crowd, along with their dates, laughed at the remark.

Gordon narrowed his eyes and prayed that he wouldn't lose it and simply knock Towers out on the spot.

"Have you ever used a Hydrofoil, Gordon? They're an interesting enough craft."

"Course I have. I have a license to drive anything like that." He hadn't had a great deal of practice with that craft specifically, but how much harder could it be than driving a speed-boat? And he _had_ taken one of Brains' prototypes out onto the Pacific, and it had handled pretty well. A person had to be careful when driving it, of course, but Gordon considered himself to be proficient enough with boats to not have to worry.

"All right." Another sneer tugged at Towers' lips. "Would it be too hard to ask for you to pay the fee to rent the craft? They have them right here at the marina."

Silently, Gordon reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He flipped it open and withdrew a silver-colored credit card. "Only so that I can have the pleasure of leaving you in my wake."

The two locked eyes for a long moment, then wordlessly made their way to the door. The crowd followed silently behind, keeping several steps back as though they were fearful of what might happen.

From inside the marina, a weary and slightly more sober-sounding Jason Hurk called out, "Tracy? You there?"

"He's outside," someone offered from the back of the group.

"What?" Pushing himself clumsily to his feet, Hurk staggered towards the door, bumping into several people along the way. "Leaving without me? The bastard."

* * *

For anyone watching from the sidelines, it must have appeared to be something out of a movie. The waters of the marina rippled up the sides of the docks, driven by a strong current and a progressively fiercer night wind. Bright white spotlights from the building doused the area in a halo, illuminating two watercraft and the young men who stood beside them. 

"You ready, Tracy?"

"You better believe it. Ready to lose?"

Towers laughed and finished zippering up the water suit that had been given to him by the boat manager. "Tracy, I admire your stamina. Unfortunately, I won't be the one that's going to lose."

Another pair approached the two from behind. One, a pretty blonde girl nearly Gordon's height, walked over to Towers and wrapped her arm around his neck. The other, who the light revealed to be Jason Hurk, jokingly wrapped his arm around Gordon as he walked up to him.

"Hey!" Blushing, Gordon threw the other boy's arm off him and attempted to stifle a laugh. "Come on, Hurk, this is serious."

"Aw." Shrugging, the other boy crossed his eyes and tried to finish lacing up his boot, which was undone and only half on his foot. "Just thought I'd give you a hug for good luck."

The blonde smiled sweetly at the two boys and tightened her hold on Towers ever so slightly. "Simon is going to wipe the floor with you two idiots."

Glaring at the woman, Gordon went back to prepping his hydrofoil. "Well, don't say I didn't warn you at least. Dragging your girlfriend into this."

"It was your idea, Tracy, and if you get a partner, then so do I."

"Just for spotting!" Gordon growled, gradually growing more and more irritated with both the engine of the hydrofoil and with Towers' condescending attitude. "It'd be suicide to go out without a spotter, especially at night with the way the water is. You know that. We could hit something, and that'd be the end of it."

The other boy shrugged, leaned over, and opened the hatch to his hydrofoil. The craft were large by normal standards - and offered the luxury of having the cockpit sealed air tight from the outside environment. "Nice boats, Tracy. But I suppose you don't go cheap, do you?"

Trying his best to ignore Towers, Gordon – satisfied with the state of the craft – slammed the engine hatch shut and flipped open the hatch to the driving compartment. "Come on, Hurk, let's get this over with. I wanna get some sleep tonight."

Hurk nodded, jumping in behind Gordon and pulling the hatch shut behind him. The inside of the craft was akin to the front seats of a car, tight, yet spacious enough to afford the driver and the co-pilot some much needed breathing room.

Strapping in, Gordon quickly brought online the systems, and the cockpit flashed to life with an eerie golden glow. Read-out monitors blinked on and off, and the light reflected out of the window onto the ripping water beyond. That finished, Gordon reached to the ceiling and pulled down the oxygen mask and helmet that was built into the ship. The tank was stored safely under his seat, though the entire set-up was only a precaution in the case the craft should sink and take on water.

The mask in place, Gordon flipped a switch that activated the in-craft radio that would allow him and Hurk to communicate while wearing the breathing gear.

"Y'ready? Mask all set?" Gordon waved a hand to catch the other boy's attention.

"Sure." Hurk grunted and pulled his crash webbing tighter just to be safe. "Goddamn, I wish I weren't so bloody hungover. You're just lucky that the stuff runs through my system fast. One piss and I'm fine."

"Thanks, Hurk," Gordon muttered, taking the control systems in his hands and gently nudging the craft towards the makeshift start line that had been drawn. "Like I wanted to hear that."

Almost without noise, the craft gracefully floated over to one of the docks where a white rope had been laced around a post. To the side, Gordon could see Towers' craft following with the grace inherent of a skilled driver.

"Dammit, Hurk, we could lose this."

"You think? I thought you were an expert at this."

"I am," Gordon grumbled, "but I think he is too." As the tip of the craft finally reached the edge of the dock, Gordon put it back into neutral gear for a moment and turned to his friend. "Okay, Hurk, you know what to do."

"O'course. I watch the map read-out, and if you're heading towards anything big I'm supposed to yell."

"Good enough."

As the seconds ticked down until the call was given to start, Gordon tried to calm himself and find the place in his body that he hid his mind when he raced. The lights around him began to congeal, and the only thing that he saw was the dark watery path ahead of him. That was the focus he was looking for. He didn't hear the people yelling outside, he didn't even see Hurk as the boy absently adjusted his harness again.

He saw, in the far distance, a buoy floating out on the water, illuminated by a bright red bulb. It bobbed up and down in the wake, teasing him, the light refracting as though it were being seen through water.

And once again, all he cared about was the red stripe in the distance.

Distantly, Gordon heard a voice outside cry, "Ready your craft!"

That was simple enough. Gripping the controls tightly, Gordon leaned forward slightly and put the slightest amount of pressure on the acceleration pedal. The craft wouldn't go anywhere until he changed gears, but it made a decent roaring sound that he hoped would at least tell Towers that he also knew what he was doing.

"Set!"

Gordon's hand waited, poised, over the released control.

"Go!"

In all of a split second, the redhead snapped the craft into gear, cued the acceleration, and was thrown back in his chair as the craft nearly took off out of the water. As it picked up speed the ride became less bumpy, for the body of the hydrofoil rose out of the water with the wind pressure to ride on two ski-like protrusions out the bottom. Properly driven, it offered a smoother ride than any airplane or car out there.

"We're coming up to the first buoy, Gord!"

"I see it." Clenching his teeth, Gordon maneuvered the craft ever so slightly to the right, expertly slaloming it around the first of ten rendezvous buoys that were set out in the waters of the Atlantic. The motion sent a spray of water up onto the windshield of the craft, momentarily blinding Gordon and forcing him to rely on his computer read-out to drive.

"Where's Towers?"

"Coming up behind." A low roar began to vibrate through the cabin, and Hurk turned to Gordon with a pissed off expression. "The bastard's passing us in his lane. He's gonna kill himself going that fast!"

The hydrofoil lurched violently to the side as the wake from the other craft slammed into its side. Grimacing, Gordon held the craft on course with pure strength, his arms burning under the pressure that the controls were exerting to try and spin it out of control. The hydrofoil quickly lost speed as he cut back in order to keep it on the water.

Up ahead and to the left, Towers' craft was already passing the third marker. It wouldn't be long before he would be too far ahead to catch.

"Hold on, Hurk." Slamming his foot down as hard as he dared, Gordon opened the throttle completely on the craft. The feeling of flying became even more pronounced - as the bottom rungs of the hydrofoil trailed ever so slightly through the upper mist of the water. He was sure that Hurk trusted his judgement, as the other boy didn't say a word the entire while.

Soon Towers' craft came back into view, and Gordon had the utmost joy of sending a wave of water down on his opponent's craft. "Take that, you asshole."

Buoy after buoy flashed by as the two hydrofoils traded the lead back and forth, showering each other with waves of seawater and raising the intensity of the two drivers tenfold. In the ever-approaching distance a large red beckon flashed in the darkness, the last in the line of ten that signaled the halfway point of the race. The most dangerous portion of the course was coming up – the one hundred and eighty-degree turn that would take both crafts back in the direction of the marina.

It was just like in the pool. Every minute detail – the pounding of the waves on the sides of the hydrofoil, the sharp whine of the engines, the occasional bounce as the craft touched too deep into the water – became pronounced and highlighted.

Then the turn was upon them, and he instinctively brought the craft around in a tight arc, every bolt and bearing in the hydrofoil protesting as he took the ship to the very limit of its structural stability. The momentum of the movement slammed him into the side of his crash webbing, and he struggled to keep his hands firmly on the controls. The turn was almost finished, was so close to being complete –

And suddenly, as if snapping out of a fog, Gordon heard Hurk's already half finished yell:

" - Christ!"

The next second was the longest of Gordon's entire life; he could see Towers' craft come up along side his, and it was obvious from the trajectory that they had both hit the turn at the same time. What sent an engulfing and paralyzing fear through his chest was the realization that they had both, in their blind and driven attempts to win, taken the inside corner on the return lap, instead of the outside, in the hopes of shaving a few seconds off their time. The proximity of the other craft, and the centrifugal wake that followed it, meant only one thing.

Both craft were about to be bombarded by the other's wake pattern, and Gordon knew what that could do at such a close range on such a close turn.

The moment passed, and the last thing that he had time to do before the wall of water hit was close his eyes. The red light of the buoy glared under his eyelids no matter how tight he clenched them, giving the immediate impression of a blazing fire. Then there was a roaring sound, the feeling of the craft rising in the air and coming down –

And then, only blackness.

* * *

_TBC in Part 2 – Reaction._


	30. Reaction I

* * *

_Dislcaimer:_ Thunderbirds is the property of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, as well as Carlton and Universal. No profit is intended to be made from this story; it is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended, and none should be inferred. All original characters are the property of the author. This story should not be used or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

* * *

AN: Due to size restraints, this chapter has been split into two pieces, Reaction I and Reaction II. Also, remember to check my author page for extended author notes and review responses!

* * *

**Blood is Thicker Than Water: Part 2a**

**Reaction I  
****May 2019**

There were certain noises that, no matter how deeply he slept, Scott Tracy always awakened to. Most of them were variations of a siren or alert, from his days with the Air Force, but there was one noise very different from those that instilled a dread in him like nothing else. He had never served actively in any specific war zone, had instead spent his flying time patrolling the home land, but he had once been privileged to seeing and hearing another aircraft miss a landing and crash into the runway.

That same noise, one of burning gasoline and re-pressurization, sent him flying upright in bed, a startled expression on his face. "What the hell?" Not bothering to even grab a shirt, Scott jumped from the mattress – causing Jeff to groan with the annoyance of being awakened in the middle of the night – and ran to the window dressed only in his boxer shorts.

A column of smoke was rising in the waters just off the marina, accompanied by a fading white glow that seemed to have come from some sort of explosion. It hadn't been a fire, for sure, not that far out of the water. No, the noise had been mechanical in nature.

"Dad!"

The shout was unnecessary, for Jeff was already standing behind Scott, his face serious as he surveyed the scene. "This looks bad."

Then a thought struck Scott, so profound in nature that it simply grew stronger and stronger until he felt sick to his stomach. "Gordon." He locked eyes with his father for a long moment, until the other man's face reflected his own feelings of dread. "We've got to get out there."

Neither tried to explain how they knew, for there was no time to discuss. They simply threw on the nearest items of clothing that were lying around and ran out the door. Somehow, they knew that Gordon was involved in the explosion – and it was the uncertainty of not knowing how that was the most frightening.

* * *

A sizeable crowd had already gathered at the marina by the time that Jeff and Scott drove up in their rented car. Not even taking the time to park properly, Jeff simply stopped the car on the sidewalk, jumped out, and hurried as fast as he could towards the building. Trees and sidewalk flew by him as he ran, and soon he was standing at the edge of the crowd, unable to see past to the water beyond. 

Unable to push his way through, Jeff felt a growing sense of unease and horror form in his chest. He knew that he had to get through, knew that he had to be at the dock, but the other people in the crowd all wanted to see just as badly.

"Let me through!" Jeff demanded, drawing several odd looks from the people at the back. "Please let me through!"

"My brother's out there!"

It was Scott's loud and passionate plea that finally parted the crowd. There was no doubting, from the young man's expression and the emotion in his voice, that he was telling the truth, and no one in the crowd seemed in any hurry to get in a fight with him.

As the people thinned before him, Jeff found himself walking faster and faster, until – finally moving at a frantic pace – he stood at the very edge of the docks, amongst a smaller group of police officers and medical personnel. It was from that point that Jeff finally saw the remains of what had happened on the water.

Just visible in the darkness was a still smouldering patch of wreckage, small pieces of metal and plastic that floated up and down on the wake and reflected in the dull light of the moon. A thin film of gasoline covered the water, still burning in some spots, and the twisted back fin of what appeared to be a hydrofoil floated up and down, its shadowy form standing out starkly against the moonlit sky. The entire scene was bathed in a crimson light that was cast from an innocent looking buoy that floated amidst the wreckage, spared from the wrath of whatever had fallen upon the other craft.

The scene, so completely dismal and mentally devastating in its entirety, nearly sent Jeff Tracy to his knees. It was the desire to know what happened that kept him upright, turned him around where he stood, and forced him to ask, "Where is my son?"

When no one responded, Jeff shook his head, panic rising in him even as he tried to quell it, and repeated, "_Where is my son?"_

He had not intended for the words to be spoken so loud, but the harsh and grating quality of them silenced nearly all the conversation around the marina in less than a second. Various men and women stared at him from the crowd, some pointing, others whispering amongst themselves. Finally, one of the police officers stepped forward and reached his hand to take Jeff by the shoulder.

"Sir, I'm afraid that you can't be here."

But Jeff Tracy was not in a mood to discuss. He had every intention of staying right where he was, on the dock, until someone answered his question.

"Sir," repeated the officer, a bit more forcefully, "I must ask you to leave."

"No!" Pushing away the man's hand, Jeff turned to the crowd and returned the stares of the onlookers. He could see Scott approaching from the corner of his eye, his face showing hints of distress and concern. "Someone must know. Where is my son?" The words were a plea, nothing more, and even as he spoke them Jeff felt his strength flow out of him.

As Jeff's knees buckled, as he fell towards the deck, as he saw Scott rush up to catch him, a young man finally walked forward out of the crowd.

His face was a mixture of emotions, and he looked at ground as he began to speak. "Is your son Gordon Tracy?"

Feeling vaguely stupid at forgetting to mention such a thing, Jeff nodded. He shrugged off Scott's help, choosing instead to stay close to the ground where he felt more secure and less at risk of falling. Quietly, almost to the point of sounding indifferent, Jeff asked one last time, "Where is he?"

The other boy's face became very pale, and he glanced briefly towards the water. "Sir, Gordon and Simon were racing the hydrofoils. I saw them, they were about to make the turn . . ." he trailed off, then continued when he found some form of composure. "I don't know what happened! There was an explosion, and then . . ." Unable to continue, the boy gestured out at the water.

The hard reality of the situation hit Jeff head on at that moment. Though he was able to hold back the scream that wanted to escape his lips, he could not stop his body from nearly doubling over with the pain and the shock of the situation.

"There are divers out there right now." The police officer that had tried to restrain him earlier had once again stepped forward. "There may be some survivors. We have reason to believe that the boys were wearing oxygen masks, and if they survived the initial crash then they may be alive. We're not sure how much air they would have, but there might be time to cut them out before the oxygen runs out completely."

Jeff barely heard the words as the man spoke them. His own mind was beginning to feel submerged, as though the entire scene was underwater. The lights blurred, the voices began to merge together, and all that he could see was the flashing red beacon out on the water. The entire situation seemed horribly familiar.

"There were four in the craft; we've confirmed that much. Simon Towers and Gordon Tracy were the two pilots, though we are unsure of the identity of the co-pilots."

But, unlike that moment nine and a half years ago, when Jeff Tracy had been forced to watch, helpless, as his wife had died, another voice surfaced in his mind and spoke to him. It was the neutral and cold voice of the commander that made it his job to deal with situations like that. It was the voice of reason, the logical and reasoning part of his mind that had not fully shut down amidst the shock of the night's events.

_You have the gear with you. You have Scott's laser pistol. You could make sure that the survivors would be rescued. You could use it to cut them from the craft. It doesn't matter if everyone see us, you have to do everything possible to save Gordon. Everything possible . . ._

A combination of hysteria and adrenaline coursed through his veins, and Jeff reached a hand and pulled Scott down close to his face. "Scott, the laser gun . . ."

The young man's face clouded for a moment, confusion written plainly across it. "Laser gun . . ." Then as suddenly as it had appeared the confusion disappeared – to be replaced with a helpless panic that was rarely – if ever – seen on Scott Tracy's face. "I left it at the hotel . . ."

With that one statement, the logical part of Jeff's brain shut down, and the part of him that was quickly becoming emotionally unstable took over. A surge of pure anger rose in him, and without thinking he threw Scott's hands from his shoulders and pushed the young man aside. "But he's my son!" The words were screamed in pure and utter anguish, tearing at Jeff's throat as he said them.

He knew what it looked like to the crowd. He knew that they were staring at him, wondering what to do about the man who was having an emotional breakdown in front of them. But he didn't care. There was no possible way that they could understand what he was feeling – they had probably never lost anyone in their family, let alone someone close to them. Jeff had not only lost one who was dear to him, but . . .

That thought, of losing one more in his family, drained every last bit of energy from his body. He was dimly aware of being caught by Scott, of being directed gently to the ground, of looking up into the face of his son who stared at him with unlimited concern. "Scott . . ."

The young man simply nodded, and pulled his father towards him into a tight hug.

Beyond caring about his pride, Jeff accepted his son's arms and pulled the boy close to his chest. The effort allowed him to return to a sitting position, and gave him a clear view of the rippling waters beyond the docks. "Scott, I can't lose him. I just can't."

"Just wait," his son replied, for a moment becoming the officer who always told those he helped that things would be all right. Even so, under the mask Jeff could see – could feel – his son shaking in his arms, as Scott tried to hold everything inside and failed. "We don't know for sure . . ."

As if in answer to Scott's words, the water near the docks rippled, then splashed, and from the depths rose a pair of divers. They walked forward out of the water, their movement restricted by the flippers on their feet, and by the torn and broken body that the front man carried protectively in his arms.

At first, Jeff saw no way that the body could be that of his son. The black jump-suit hid most of the body's features, and its smooth surface was torn and ripped in many places. Lines of blood ran up and down the cloth, dripping onto the dock as the diver reached land, and the entire body was so battered and burned that it was hard to tell where the suit ended and human flesh began.

But then Jeff saw the hair, turned nearly black from the smoke of the explosion. Amongst the ashes and the drying blood there were red locks – red locks that were not red from fresh blood, but from a genetic trait that had inexplicably appeared in the Tracy bloodline nearly eighteen years earlier. From that, other features – the sharp cheekbones, the body built so like his brothers, the eyes that normally spoke of trouble – became hauntingly prominent.

Everything went back to being fog. Every step that the diver took echoed in Jeff's mind. Every breath, every word that he spoke, hung in the air like mist over the ocean.

"Only one?" The police officer seemed so professional, so cold.

"Two were dead on impact. The girl was still alive, but we couldn't break through the wreckage before her air supply ran out. We cut the other one out."

Somehow, with a strength that he couldn't understand, Jeff stumbled to his feet towards the diver. As he came closer, he could see the man's arm band which identified him as belonging to WASP, the sea patrol unit that was protecting the Florida coast during the time of the competition. No one in the crowd spoke as the two men passed.

The man did not slow as he approached Jeff, but instead continued on at a steady pace until he reached the emergency vehicle that was now parked beside the marina. No one pointed; no one even dared to breathe loudly. The air was now thick with exhaust and smoke from the crash site, and Jeff felt as though he might suffocate with every breath that he took.

The diver carefully set the body on the stretcher, nodded briefly in Jeff's direction, then turned back towards the water.

"Are you going with him?"

Jeff nodded at the medic who addressed him - and accepted the man's help to climb into the back of the vehicle. What else could he do? He felt helpless, completely and utterly helpless. He knew so little about medicine as to be no help at all, while his son lay bleeding in front of him, his life hanging precariously in the hands of the emergency personnel around him.

As one doctor set an intravenous tube, another secured the back hatch of the ambulance. Soon the craft pulled away from the marina, though through the darkened windows of the vehicle Jeff could not make out where they were headed. If there was at least a hospital nearby, then perhaps Gordon might have . . .

A fighting chance. Shaking his head, Jeff took his son's battered hand in his. The skin was cold to the touch - and covered in a thin layer of what appeared to be oil. The boy's eyes were closed, and for all he could tell Gordon may as well have been fast asleep, not unconscious and near death. He had seen it all before; Lucy had looked the same when he had lain with her, buried in the wreckage of the monorail, waiting for someone to come and find them. But Lucy had never really woken up. She had gained conciseness briefly right before she had died and that had been it. There had never been – as painful as it was for Jeff to admit – any hope for her survival.

Gordon looked no better than she had; the burns and lacerations and breaks in bones were too many for Jeff to count, and the more that he looked over his son, the more that he wanted to break down and cry again. Had the body not been that of his son, had he been an onlooker, he would have told the worried parent hanging over the boy that he needed to be strong, because there would be no morning, no wake-up, for the child.

How could he do that, though? As illogical as it seemed to him, he could not give into the truth that his son would likely never look him in the eyes again.

But . . .

Maybe Gordon did have a fighting chance. Of any of the boys he had the most spirit, the most energy, the most life in him. For all of the times that Jeff had yelled at his son for fighting, all of the times that he had disciplined him for never knowing when to quit – now Jeff would have given anything to tell the ginger-haired boy to keep doing just that. What he would have given to look Gordon in the eyes and say, keep going, son! I know you can make it.

For how many times since he had been born had the boy pulled himself through tough times? He hadn't survived because of his brothers' help, had not become the person that he was due to a dependence on another. No, he was his own person, and there was no end to the stamina that he could display when he had something to fight for.

At that moment, barrelling down the freeway in an ambulance with sirens blaring, Jeff Tracy hoped with all of his soul that his son truly wanted to stay with his family.

"Stay with me, Gordon," Jeff whispered, squeezing tight the ever-cooling hand in his grip. "Stay with me."

* * *

Scott was halfway into the rental car when a strong hand grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. Startled, Scott found himself looking into the concerned face of the police officer that his father had spoken to mere moments ago. 

"Are you sure you can drive?" the man asked carefully, pointing at Scott's hands.

Looking down, Scott discovered that the question was a legitimate one, for his hands were shaking so badly that he could barely hold them still even if he tried. If his nerves were that upset, then driving would be absolutely out of the question at the moment.

"But I have to get to the hospital!" Even if he couldn't get there himself, there had to be a way.

Thankfully, there was. "I'll give you a ride," the officer offered, in the voice that Scott himself had tried to put on over and over again as the night progressed. It was the calm voice of an official trying to deal with a bunch of shock stricken victims. "If you want."

Nodding, Scott didn't even argue as the man wrapped Scott's arm about his shoulder and helped him over to the nearest police cruiser. The more that he considered it, the more the younger man realised that he was hardly fit to walk, let alone drive a vehicle. There were limits to every person's stamina, and he had crossed the line of his own a long time ago.

As the car pulled away from the marina, Scott remembered suddenly that no one else in the family knew what had happened. Trusting the officer to find the hospital, Scott pulled out his phone and began to dial what was a very long and complicated phone number. He would have to tell the rest of the family as soon as possible, and John would have to know first so he could continue to monitor the organisation while everyone else tried to get to the hospital.

* * *

"John, are you sitting down?" 

Shaking his head at the strangeness of the question, John took a long breath and replied somewhat tentatively, "Sure." He glanced briefly around at the Thunderbird Five command centre, his eyes eventually falling to the chair that he sat in. "Normally I am when I'm talking to you." When Scott didn't respond immediately, John leaned closer to the console as if in an attempt to be closer to his brother. "Scott?"

At first there was only the subtle sound of road noise, audible only at a closer range to the speaker. The longer he went without an answer, the more that John began to feel that something was deeply wrong. He couldn't place it specifically, yet he had had the feeling since Scott had first contacted him.

His brother's voice was too professional sounding, for one thing. It was almost as if he were on a mission, trying to keep his calm, trying to play the part of the commander and leader of the rescue team . . .

"Scott?" The feeling intensified. "Scott?"

"There's been an accident," Scott finally broke out, his voice hoarse and emotional.

"Where?" Immediately brining up the alert displays, John scanned over the readouts and saw no sign of a rescue call from anywhere in the southern United States. "Not where you are . . . there's nothing on the screen." Then why was Scott so upset? It was far from normal for his brother to show any emotion, let alone the tangible amounts of grief that were seeping into his tone after only a few words.

"At the marina."

"Scott, there is no . . ." The astronomer's eyes widened in horror as he came across an action news broadcast from the Tampa Beach network. "What the hell? Why didn't this flag an alert?"

"There was no time," Scott replied vaguely. "It happened too quick; they did what they could."

As picture after picture of news footage flashed by on the screen, the unidentifiable emotion in John's stomach transformed abruptly into sheer dread. There was no need to ask his brother who had been hurt. There was no need to clarify where the one survivor was going. But there was one burning question at the back of his mind that needed, more than anything else, that begged to be answered.

"Why?" The words fell thickly into the air, barely leaving John's mouth before he shut it and shook his head. "What the hell was he doing?"

"I don't know." Scott's voice was pained, and John knew how much his brother hated to be helpless and uninformed at work, let alone during a personal emergency. "Damn it, John, I don't know. I just know that Dad's with him, and they're both on the way to some bloody hospital around here."

Trying to maintain a sense of calm, and failing, John replied, "All right Scott, try and calm down. Listen, as soon as you get there give me another call and tell me where it is. If you want I can call Virgil and tell him."

"John, I-"

"Don't try to be mister tough guy, Scott. You're practically falling apart at the seams." The next words hurt John a great deal to say but to a certain extent they were true. "Listen, I'm used to dealing with people when stuff like this happens. I can keep calm, make sure everyone knows what's going on." That made it sound so cold, John thought, so completely cold and impersonal when in fact it was the most personal situation that he might ever deal with in his life. "You just get there. I'll make sure that everyone else arrives."

Scott sighed - and finally agreed somewhat reluctantly. "All right."

"Please." There was one other reason that John Tracy needed to call his brothers. Of any of his family, he was the only one that couldn't possibly help out on the ground, and the last thing that he wanted was to sit helpless while his younger brother was being sewn up. If he couldn't be there, if he couldn't offer his support to his father's face directly, then he would do the one thing that he did best. "Scott, I can't do anything else. Just tell me that you'll go there and try and keep Dad in one piece."

"All right," the other man repeated, his voice slowly calming down but displaying no less emotion. Instead of panic, however, it radiated grim purpose and determination, the same feelings that Scott always managed to flood a rescue area with. "I'll call you as soon as I find anything else out."

"Right." Not even pausing to say good-bye, John closed the channel and immediately opened the link to Tracy Island. He didn't have the luxury of having time for pleasantries. He didn't even have the luxury of being able to become upset about the incident. What mattered more than anything was that he relay the message to Virgil in enough time that the other boy could swing around and pick up Alan from school. It hurt that there wasn't even time for the horror of the situation to truly sink in. What kept John going was the knowledge that he could perhaps be a point of light in the storm if he managed to keep his cool.

As he waited for the alert call to be returned, however, he couldn't stop his mind from troubling over his brother's predicament. They were on the way to the hospital in an ambulance. That alone suggested Gordon was in danger – but Gordon had been in danger before, and had come through all right. He _had_ to be all right this time. He had to be, because up there in space, there was absolutely nothing that John could do to help him. He couldn't sit by his side. He couldn't hold his hand.

He couldn't even see his brother for himself, but instead had to rely on the reports of others. It was as it always was, only this time John didn't want to be isolated from what he was dealing with. This was his brother that was in trouble, and it was very, very real to him - no matter how far away from the Earth he was at the moment.

"Why the hell did you do it?" John whispered, looking briefly out the window towards the planet below. "Damn it, Gordon, you're smarter than that. Cheating death . . ."

Cheating death wasn't always possible.

While the feelings of sadness and frustration mounted inside of him, John searched for something – anything – that he could hold onto that could give him hope. Of all of the memories that he had of Gordon – times when he had been disciplined, times when he had pulled a prank, times when he had taken one step too many and annoyed his family – he settled on a memory that was very fresh in his mind. In it, his brother was frozen in time, his face red with triumph and sweat, as he raised a gold medal above his head towards the clouds.

That determination, that raw strength and endurance that Gordon possessed that allowed him to do great things and caused him to be prone to great anger, might well be the thing that would save him in the end. John hoped, if he knew his brother as well as he thought he did, that Gordon, out of shear stubbornness, would manage to pull through.

Then there was no time to think, for the alert to Tracy Island had been received and Virgil was on the line demanding to know what was wrong.

* * *

"Hurry up, Fermat," Alan snapped impatiently, waiting as his friend signed the form that would allow them – with teacher permission – to leave the school. "Virgil's gonna be here and we're all gonna be waiting for you." 

"I s-s-s-still can't remember how to spell Hackenbacker." The bespectacled boy bit his tongue in concentration, then continued with the signature. "Your last name is easy. Mine u-u-u-used to be."

It had been the decision of Fermat's father, James, to legally change their last name from Wilson to the odd and uncommon surname of Hackenbacker in order to make it harder for people to link the family to Tracy Industries. The older man was always at a seminar or presentation somewhere, and it was very plausible that someone would eventually place him as working for the company. If that information ever was linked to the man who created the ships for International Rescue, then the entire secrecy of the operation was in jeopardy.

Finished, Fermat slammed the pen down on the secretary's desk and gave her a broad smile. "There, finished."

The woman looked over the paper for a long moment, tsked and shook her head, then regarded Fermat carefully. "Didn't you learn to spell your name in kindergarten?"

Turning a violent shade of pink, Fermat shook his head and humbly admitted, "Y-y-y-yeah. I did. But I still can't spell it."

Seemingly satisfied, the woman snatched up Alan's paper as well and filed them away in a drawer underneath her desk. "Very well. If you will have your father notify the school as soon as he can, then we can complete the paperwork and verify your leave."

"Right," Alan muttered, already leaving the office at a near run. "Well the principle can kiss my ass for all I care."

Following closely behind, Fermat shook his head at his friend's antics. "What did happen? You never told me."

"My stupid brother's in the hospital." Alan's tone suggested a deep and growing anger. "Probably broke his leg or something. And I was actually ready for that test, too!"

The last comment was rather appropriate, Fermat thought sadly, considering that Alan had spent the entire previous night with his head buried in a math book. He had even been reasonably excited about the test the next morning, thinking that he would finally be prepared enough to do better on it than normal.

"M-m-m-maybe it's not his fault," the younger boy finally suggested carefully. "After all, I don't think he would have intentionally tried to make you miss it."

"Gordon?" The other boy snorted harshly. "You'd be surprised what he'd do."

Fermat nodded, but still felt that Alan wasn't cutting his brother nearly enough slack. After all, if Virgil was coming to pick them up then it must be something serious. He didn't want to worry his friend, but the logic was there and the conclusion was inevitable. "Alan, I think something is actually wrong."

"No way." The tone of Alan's voice revealed a great deal. The way that he dismissed Fermat's claims suggested that he didn't want to think about it, and the more Fermat thought about it, the more he decided that Alan had also come to the same conclusion and just didn't want to think about it. "No way, Fermat. He was just out swimming. I mean, what could he have done to himself in a pool?"

Finally at the front doors of the school, the pair sat down on the front steps of the academy and prepared for what appeared to be a very long wait. "Did Virgil say anything else?"

"I dunno." Alan shook his head. "I didn't talk to him. The secretary took the call. She just told me that someone was sick, and that Virgil would be coming to get us."

"It could take him a while."

"I know." Looking about the street, Alan finally sighed and let his head fall between his legs. "Great. This is just how I like to spend my day. I can't believe I actually would rather be inside writing a stupid math test!"

"A-a-a-at least it's warm out."

That comment was true, and Alan couldn't argue it. The warm winds of summer had finally stepped in to take over from the colder and wetter winds of spring, leaving the California countryside to be dry and vibrant until the time came for the next bout of cold. Fermat didn't know specifically, but he was pretty sure that it never snowed at the new school that he and Alan had moved to the previous month. What the residents of the area considered cool was mild compared to what Fermat and Alan had experienced in North Dakota and Oregon.

"At least this place feels a little more like home," Alan commented absently, his eyes trained upward on the sky and clouds. "Hope the Headmaster isn't too mad about last week. I kind of like this place."

_I think he is,_ Fermat thought silently to himself. _I wouldn't be surprised if he calls home at the end of the week to have us transferred again._

The quiet atmosphere was interrupted as a car abruptly turned a nearby corner and hurtled towards the school. The vehicle skidded to a halt on the asphalt, leaving skid marks on the road and the faintest hint of burned rubber in the air. It was a newer craft, some sort of non-brand car that Fermat had never seen before; everything about it spoke of aerodynamics and power, and it seemed to Fermat that it carried the telltale design quirks of his father.

Fermat and Alan were already on their way to the vehicle by the time that the door opened and Virgil poked his head out. The older boy looked tired and weary – which was understandable, given how far he had just flown with the family jet – and his eyes lacked the normal brightness that they contained whenever Fermat saw him.

"Get in," Virgil gasped, out of breath, jumping right back into the vehicle before Alan or Fermat could respond.

Once inside, the two boys strapped themselves in and gave Virgil the okay to drive. He wasted no time in accelerating the car, quickly bringing it up to highway speed in the direction of the city limits.

"Virgil, you're going the wrong way!"

"No time to explain," Virgil responded quickly to his brother's demands. "Just hold on and get ready to take a deep breath when I tell you to." Scenery flashed by on either side of the vehicle at an ever-increasing rate. Fermat worried briefly that a police cruiser would spot them, but the deserted quality of the street that Virgil had chosen suggested that the older boy had already planned the incident out carefully.

Several minutes passed by in silence, until the car finally turned onto a deserted road in a run down area of town. Glancing out both windows, Virgil shook his head, smiled grimly, and depressed several buttons on the head dash that the other two boys had not noticed upon initially entering the vehicle.

Fermat was startled to see the entire dash fold in upon itself, rearranging so that the wheel quickly became the controls for a plane and the radio transformed itself into an elaborate and complicated looking communications port.

"What the hell is this?" Alan spit out, looking about the car in panic as if he were concerned that the seat he was sitting on would change as well. "Virgil?"

Turning to look at his brother, Virgil replied, "Something Brains has been working on for a while." He reached into the glove compartment and withdrew from it a thin but sturdy looking radio headset, set it around his ears, and flicked another switch on the dash. "John, can you hear me?"

The speakers in the car crackled. After only a few moments, the crisp voice of John Tracy replied, "I can now. How was the landing?"

"All right. It's a little jerkier than the take-off, but we can work on that later."

"Take-off?" Alan and Fermat looked at each other in alarm.

"Take-off," Virgil confirmed, his attention mostly on the read-out screens that had popped out of the upper dash. "John, how's the radar on your end?"

"You're clear, Virg. Put it up now and nobody will see you."

The two younger boys glanced at each other again and tightened their hold on their seat belts. "Virgil?"

"Hold on!" Though his face was once again turned towards the front, the seriousness in his voice was enough to convince Fermat that they would be in for a bumpy ride. "I'm taking her up!"

Fermat had just enough time to turn around, and see a large rocket booster unfold from the suspiciously large trunk of the vehicle - before the engines fired and he was slammed back in his seat. The car – rocket-car, he corrected himself – left the ground after only a few meters, spiralling straight upward towards the cloud line where it could fly hidden from sensors.

As the car gained altitude the strain of the acceleration slowly lessened, until Virgil brought the craft into a gentle arc that set it between two alternating layers of clouds in the stratosphere. The ground sprawled thousands of feet below, mixed belts of green trees and golden sand in the distance that gradually gave way to the dull grey colours of inner California's cities.

"Crap! There's the school!" Alan pointed out the window at a small building that quickly disappeared behind a puffy cumulous cloud. He turned towards Fermat, his face a mixture of incredulity and excitement. "This is so cool!"

Up front, Virgil made a few minor adjustments to what appeared to be a sensor screen, input some data into a small keyboard set just beside controls, then leaned back in his chair with a sigh of relief. "We're good to go."

"Is the radar baffle still holding?" John asked.

"Seems to be. Looks like the new coating that Brains worked out is bouncing the scans pretty much flawlessly. We're completely invisible to the Defence Network."

"Good, that means less work for me. All right, Virgil, if the autopilot is working then you can probably settle in. I'll monitor the craft and alert you if it starts to deviate."

"Right." Virgil paused for a moment, his face clouding over. "Any news from Dad or Scott?"

"They're at the hospital right now. Apparently they took Gordon into surgery about half an hour ago. No sign of how long he'll be in there."

"Thanks." Sighing, Virgil rubbed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "I'll call you when we're approaching Tampa Beach."

"Try and relax, Virgil, if that's possible. I'll be watching. John out."

The communication fading out, Virgil let his head fall back onto the headrest. Lines of tension and worry were plainly visible across his face, and the feeling that had come over the two other boys after hearing John's words deepened as they watched the older one try to maintain his self control.

* * *

"What happened?" The words felt thick on Alan's tongue, as if he had to force them out of his mouth with the force of his entire body. "Virgil?" 

"Gordon's in the hospital." His brother's voice remained controlled, but there was a dull and lifeless quality to it that worried Alan. Virgil was always so optimistic about things, even when he was angry. For that spark to disappear . . .

"We know that!" Alan found himself snapping back, both frustrated at not knowing what was going on and angry with his redheaded brother for a reason that he could not quite place. "We have ears, Virgil! We could hear John. What the hell happened?"

Alan immediately regretted speaking the words, for Virgil turned his head to the side away from his brother and refused to say anymore. That alone spoke volumes for Alan. "Virgil. Virgil, what happened to Gordon?"

When Virgil again refused to answer, Alan turned to Fermat and threw his hands up in the air in desperation. Gordon was his brother too, and once again he was being kept out of the circle! Of course, a part of him argued, that was because Virgil quite plainly didn't have the stamina to tell him the truth, but why did Alan have to be left out because everyone else in his family already knew?

"Virgil! Is he gonna be all right?"

"I don't know!" The other boy finally shouted, his voice reflecting the anger in Alan's own voice tenfold. "I don't know, all right? I don't know anything except what John told me." He banged his fist against the dash in frustration. "He was driving a hydrofoil or something and it crashed. Security Patrol pulled him from the wreck and he's at the hospital now. End of story!"

Stung by his brother's uncharacteristic frustration, Alan closed his mouth and let the words slowly sink in. Gordon was at the hospital. Virgil was very upset, which was understandable given how much time he spent with Gordon when they were together. John was co-ordinating everything from the space station, something that he never did except in the most serious of –

Emergencies.

Shaking his head, Alan was finally able to place the reason for his anger. As much as he didn't like Gordon, as much as he joked about pushing his brother off a cliff by accident, he was still his _brother._ The horrid truth of the matter was that Gordon was in trouble somewhere in Florida, and Alan was more than a thousand miles away and unable to do anything but wait.

At that moment, it didn't matter to Alan how many times Gordon had pushed him into the pool or dumped water on his head with a bucket. It didn't matter how many times the redhead was on his case about getting kicked out of school. It didn't matter how unfair it was that Gordon could do what he wanted while Alan was stuck at school alone.

"How long until we get there?" The words echoed hollowly from Alan's mouth. "Virgil?"

The sound of his brother trying to hold back a quiet sob dug deep into Alan's mind. "A few hours at least," he finally answered quietly, keeping his head turned away from his brother all the while. "Hopefully soon enough."

"Is it that bad?"

Alan needed only hear one word to fully understand how dire the situation really was.

"Yes."

* * *

TBC in Reaction II 


	31. Reaction II

* * *

_Dislcaimer:_ Thunderbirds is the property of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, as well as Carlton and Universal. No profit is intended to be made from this story; it is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended, and none should be inferred. All original characters are the property of the author. This story should not be used or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

* * *

**A/N:** Remember to check my author profile page (just click on my user name) for extended author notes and review responses! Also, there is now a forum open for story discussion. If anyone has any questions, just throw them there, and I'll be able to answer them for everyone to see. :)

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**Blood is Thicker Than Water: Part 2b  
****Reaction II  
****May 2019**

"I brought you some coffee."

Looking up at Scott, who held an expresso cup at arms length, Jeff Tracy smiled faintly and accepted the cup from his son. "Thanks."

"Any news?"

The other man shook his head - and resumed staring absently about the room.

Taking care not to spill his own drink, Scott sat down in the chair next to his father. The waiting room was reserved specifically for the families of patients who were in surgery. A warm shade of mauve coloured the walls, and the occasional medical poster was the only decoration in the room save for the television that was bolted in an upper corner. The entire suite smelled of hospital cleaner and the sickening scent of disposable gloves.

The stark quality of his surroundings gnawed at Scott's nerves. He wished that there were something in the room to keep his attention other than the diabetes posters and the annoying news program with the man that never seemed to stop smiling. The tension between him and his father and the silent but burning fear for the young man who was in the operating room kept them from saying much. There was nothing to say, really.

Scott looked up as the door to the room creaked open, and a nurse in white hospital clothing stepped in. She was followed by a man and a woman in their mid forties, who wore on their faces the same feeling that Scott felt deep inside him. The woman carried in her hands a crumbled Kleenex, and her cheeks were blotchy as though she had been crying.

"You can wait in here," the nurse instructed warmly, pointing at any number of the other seats in the room. "If we have any news regarding your son either myself or one of the other nurses will come and tell you."

"Thank you," the woman replied feebly, forcing a smile onto her face that only succeeded in making her look that much more upset.

Nodding, the nurse smiled back and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

As if just noticing that the room already had occupants, the woman looked to her husband, then to Scott and his father, then back to her husband with an expression of subtle confusion.

"Feel free to sit anywhere," Scott finally offered quietly, trying to insert a sense of support into his voice. That was a task in itself, given how his voice had taken to shaking ever since he had arrived at the hospital. "We don't have a claim on the seats."

The friendly tone of his voice seemed to break the ice, for the woman walked over to the seats across from Scott and Jeff, her husband following closely behind her. She sat down carefully, placed the Kleenex on the arm of the chair, and then gave Scott an unsure smile. "Thank you."

Frowning internally at how awkward the situation had become, Scott set his steaming coffee down on the arm of his own chair and leaned forward so he could speak to the woman. "If you need anything you can just ask me. I've been running in and out of here getting coffee for me and my dad, so it wouldn't be any trouble to grab something else."

"Don't feel an obligation to," interrupted the man, his voice strained but nevertheless firm and in control.

"No, I insist." Jumping into the conversation, the older Tracy nodded briefly at the other man then continued. "We're all in the same boat here. Scott can get you whatever you need."

The two men locked gazes for a moment, until the other man nodded and sat back in his seat. "Good of you to say that."

"I try to help when I can." It's habit, Scott thought with a trace of amusement_. If only you knew._ "It doesn't hurt to give someone a hand when they need it."

Touching her husband ever so slightly on the arm, the woman whispered, just loud enough for Scott to catch it, "Honey, we haven't introduced ourselves yet."

"Right." The man slapped his knee intently, then held out his hand to Scott. "Harry Lynfield. This is my wife, Amy."

Shaking the man's hand firmly, Scott replied, "Good to meet you. I'm Scott, and this," he let go of Harry's hand so the man could in turn shake Jeff's, "is my father."

"Jeff," the older man added, grasping Harry's hand firmly in his.

"Jeff . . ." Harry waved his other hand absently as if trying to catch something he couldn't see.

"Erm . . ."

Scott could understand his father's hesitation at revealing his last name. There were plenty of other Tracys in the United States, but more often than not people were able to associate the name Jeff Tracy with Tracy Industries, and then subsequently realised how much money the man likely had in his pocket. It was sad, how often people jumped to conclusions about the man without even getting to know him.

"Tracy," his father finally answered, shaking his shoulders ever so slightly in resignation. "Jeff Tracy."

"Tracy!" Harry's eyes went wide and he unconsciously let go of the other man's hand. "As in Jeff Tracy, corporate CEO of Tracy Industries?"

Scott cringed.

His father nodded, his eyes showing signs of weariness at the other man's words.

"What are you doing here, then?"

"Harry!" Her face suddenly animated, Amy reached a hand and gave her husband a good swat across the back of the head. "Have some manners!"

"My brother's in the hospital," Scott remarked softly, trying his best to keep the conversation civilised. "He was in a boat accident at the marina."

Both Harry and Amy froze where they were and regarded Scott with mild shock. "But we drove by that on the way here!" Harry said. "It looked like a disaster zone." Stopping suddenly, a look of apology crossed the man's face, and when he spoke again it was in a much more subdued tone. "How many survived?"

That was a difficult question to answer. "One. Maybe." Scott met his father's gaze out of the corner of his eyes, and he knew the man was thinking what he was thinking.

"He'll make it," Jeff stated flatly, though his eyes reflected thoughts of a very different kind. "Gordon's always been strong." The words were half out of the man's mouth when his voice began, ever so slightly, to waver. A stranger would see nothing out of the ordinary on his face, but Scott, having been raised by the man since birth, could see that his father was straining to hold back tears.

"Oh." The other couple looked at each other, a silent dialogue passing between them. "Oh," they repeated, finding no other words to offer.

"Our son developed an acute case of appendicitis," Amy finally explained slowly. "But they think he'll be fine. It was just the shock of it that hurt so much. It was horrible to see him in so much pain . . ." She paused - as if to compose herself. "He'll be all right, though. The doctors said it's pretty simple in terms of surgeries. Nothing to worry about, really."

The four sat in silence then, looking at each other but unable to find conversation to break the wall of tension that had once again formed. Finally, sick of sipping coffee, Scott turned to Harry and asked, "What do you do?"

The other man jumped, then laughed quietly at his stupidity. "Job, you mean? Nothing real special. I fly, for the most part. Commercial jets, private flights - that type of thing. I'd be off somewhere right now except I'm on vacation." He sighed. "Seems lately that a lot of folks aren't even interested in it as a career. They want better paying jobs – lawyers, doctors . . ."

"No!" Surprised in spite of his best efforts to hold the emotion in, Scott found a grin seeping onto his face at the man's words. "Hell, no! I fly too."

"Really? I thought you'd be helping your father . . ."

"We both fly," Jeff added in, finally distracted from his worry about Gordon. "I flew with the Airforce before I joined NASA's astronaut corps. Scott used to be part of the Airforce. Now he helps ferry supplies around for the company." The two men shared a secretive grin at the lie.

Harry's smile of incredulity broadened, and he grinned at his wife. "Who'd have thought? I'd forgotten about that. No one talks about you being an astronaut, though. Not anymore." He thought for a moment, tapping his finger absently on his knee. "What kind of plane?"

"Almost anything," Scott replied, "that you can think of. Jet, prop, fighter, scram-"

"You've flown a scram?"

Beating himself mentally, Scott closed his eyes and counted very slowly to ten. His emotions were getting the better of him and the adrenaline of the moment had lead to him to the revelation that could very well turn hazardous for the organisation. "Not a real one, just a mock-up. Something the air force was working on." He hoped the lie would be enough.

It was, for Harry sighed in disbelief. "Amy, did you hear that? A scram, a real scram!"

"I heard," the woman laughed sarcastically, obviously used to her husband's enthusiasm with his profession. "And I'll probably hear about it for the next three months now."

"You know what I'd like to get my hands on, though?" The man's eyes went wide. "That ship those International Rescue people have! I actually saw it one time when I was at the airport. A friend of mine was flying one of the super-sonic jets, those Fireflash craft, and had to make a forced landing with their help because his plane's landing gear was sabotaged. I was bringing my jet home just as they were leaving. God, Amy, I tell you, that ship just went straight up and disappeared! The engines it must have on it . . ."

All the while the woman smiled knowingly, patiently waiting for her husband to finish.

"What I'd give just to get within ten feet of that ship! My life savings, I tell you!"

"Honestly, Harry, you've got to give up on that." The woman patted her husband's arm. "You know how they are with security. Why would they give someone like you the chance to look at their equipment?"

"You never know." Shaking off his father's sudden glare, Scott held up his hands and shrugged. "Maybe you'll get closer to it sometime. They're out an awful lot, you know. It could happen."

Jeff's look said it all. _"Forget about it, Scott."_

_"Why not?"_

_"We can't trust them."_

_"You trusted the Belagant's."_

It was amazing how much could pass between the two without any words being spoken. Barely a second had passed, and Scott already knew that he had the upper hand in the argument. He could see his father weighing the options in his mind. There _was_ a security risk involved, but there was also the opportunity to hire on another agent for the organisation. Having a man from the commercial airline business involved could be very important later on.

But there was another factor involved. The Lynfields had, for the time being, offered the pair an important distraction from reality. That gift from them, however unintentional, was priceless and could likely never be repaid in any monetary value. Scott knew, though, how much his father hated being in debt to a person, and how much the older man tried to repay those who helped him.

And at the moment, there was no other way to even try to quell the nausea that was still threatening to overcome him. He had to be the field commander here, if simply just to survive the whole ordeal. It was denial, Scott knew, but he couldn't help it. It was how he dealt – how he had learned to deal – with crisis, and he couldn't abandon it anymore than Gordon could simply walk out of the operating theatre unscathed.

For Gordon's sake, Scott had to be in one piece when his brother woke up.

_"They seem like good people, Dad."_

The other man arched an eyebrow just enough that it was noticeable to Scott. _"I'll have to run a background check."_

Scott returned the facial gesture. _"Go for it."_

"I have to make a phone call," the older man declared suddenly, rising from his seat and heading to the door. "I hope you don't mind."

"No, not at all," replied the other man. He turned back to Scott. "What was it like? The scram?"

"Oh Harry!" Rubbing her face, Amy apologised, "I'm sorry . . ." Her face blanked when she tried to think of the older Tracy's name.

"Jeff."

"Jeff, then. He can be very one-track minded sometimes."

"It's all right. Scott, will you be all right?"

Given the circumstances, the answer was obvious. All the same, Scott nodded and replied, "Sure thing. Go give John a call, see how close Virgil and Alan are."

Returning the nod, his father pulled the door closed as he left.

* * *

Biting his lip in concentration, John studied something off screen, thought for a moment, then nodded. "There's nothing wrong with them," he finally said at length. "Records are clear, no criminal history. For all I can tell they're a normal working class family whose son is currently checked in at the same hospital as Gordon."

"Right," Jeff sighed, studying the portable communications device that was aptly disguised as a personal organiser. He had managed to find an empty washroom on the floor of the building, quickly securing it and locking the door to make sure that he wouldn't be disturbed. "So it's up to us, then."

"It's up to you."

Jeff sighed again, realising that it wasn't the Lynfields that were worrying him. "I can't believe I'm worried about something like this right now. Gordon's getting cut up in the OR, and I'm busy trying to hire people as agents!"

John's face fell for a moment. "Dad, it's not your fault." He grimaced and looked absently off the screen. "What the hell do you think _I'm _doing? I'm up here giving orders while you're all at least down there with him. If anyone is being stupid and cold-hearted right now, it's me."

John had a point, Jeff realised, and he felt vaguely ill about bringing the issue up in the first place. He hadn't stopped to consider that John himself was stuck up on the space station, unable to do anything but stay calm and keep everyone else on track. "Sorry, John."

"It's not your fault," the blond repeated emphatically after some time, still looking at a point off the screen. "Dad, everyone's worried sick about Gordon. It's not surprising that, with all the stress and stuff, you can't think about it all of the time. The distraction may not seem like a good thing, but there's nothing good to be gained from sitting around for hours and worrying yourself to death. And I think a lot of it is human nature. You're just trying to do something normal to try and make your life go back to normal." He smiled grimly. "It's kind of like overworking to make yourself feel better. You understand it, Dad. It's what you've always done. It's what half the population does in circumstances like this."

And that was exactly right. Shaking his head at his son's wisdom, Jeff was thankful that John still had his head on straight when everyone else was running wild. "You're right, John. Thanks." He had been saying that a lot lately. But then, John had become more than just his quiet child sitting off in a corner with a book. He was growing into a man that wasn't afraid to share his opinions – a man that he had shown signs of becoming nine years ago when he had first told his father off for acting stupid. "That's twice I've done that, and twice you've made your point."

"You're welcome." The astronomer sighed. "But I'm not getting on your case about it this time. Sitting around stewing will only make things worse, and someone down there needs to keep a clear head. So talk to those people, see if they'd sell us out. Virgil's at least two hours out yet with the plane, so you have plenty of time. If things look good, bring them on board with us."

"Right." Jeff couldn't help smiling at how John had somehow ended up giving _him_ directions. He was, after all, the leader of International Rescue, and was generally the one who developed the plans of action. Scott had a hand in it too, more often than not, but it was entertaining almost to see John fall into the part of the leader. Entertaining yes, and yet not really surprising. John, since he had arrived on the station, had slowly transformed into an adult form of the child that he had once been before his mother had died.

"Don't feel the need to stay and talk to me, Dad. Go and keep Scott company."

"You sure?"

John nodded. "Positive. I can't seem to find out anything more about the accident, so I can't tell you anything until Virgil comes in for landing."

"All right. Thanks again, John."

"Right, Dad. You take care, now. Thunderbird Five out."

* * *

The clouds continued to flash by the plane, one layer above, one layer below. The sky was still blue, though it darkened as Tracy One gradually worked its way across the country in the direction of the setting sun.

Alan and Fermat had fallen asleep in the back, and Virgil found himself unable to sleep in the front. Though the plane was on automatic pilot, it didn't feel right to put all of his trust in the vehicle in the instance that the computer should fail. Instead of drifting off, he gazed absently at the clouds as they passed, lost in thought that may as well have been sleep, for it was as deep and insinuating.

_So you crashed a hydrofoil. I can't believe that you did that, Gord. Even if it wasn't your fault – who races boats in the middle of the night? I thought you knew better than that. I kept telling Dad – I kept telling everyone – that you could be serious. I mean, you know when to quit, right? You had a line that you didn't pass. Granted, it was a long way out there, but you never ever would risk hurting someone physically. _

_But I guess this isn't about your jokes, huh? You wouldn't do something stupid like this for kicks. What'd they say, Gord? What'd they do that made you so mad? _

_Damn, I am so angry at you! Why'd you have to do it? I thought that you'd be able to rationalise. You know, look at the situation and say, hey, maybe this isn't worth it? _

_But you hate to do that. You can never let it die. Let's not leave it alone, huh? Let's go and fight or get out there and do something! You and your pride! You and your sense of righteousness and chivalry and everything else like that. It doesn't matter what it is, you have to fight for it. _

_Look what it's got you into now. You're stuck fighting for your life. And didn't the race tomorrow matter any? What about that?_

_Stupid. You little jerk. You'd better be all right. You'd better be awake when I get there. Then I can tell you exactly what you did wrong._

_Hang on, Gord. I want to talk about this. I want to know what happened. I want –_

_I want you to be okay. Don't let me down. You're so stubborn, you can get through this. Right? Right, Gordon?_

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Virgil reached up a hand and silently and methodically wiped the tears that had finally leaked from his eyes. It was funny, how he had never really considered just how much Gordon's companionship had meant to him until it was gone. He had taken it for granted, really, always assuming that Gordon would just . . . be there, no matter what.

What he would give just to have a bucket of lard dumped on his head, with the redhead's irritating laugh ringing happily in the background. But that wouldn't happen, not with Gordon in the state that he was in. It might never happen again. Ever.

_I'll be there soon, Gordon. I promise. Hang in there._

* * *

"So, Harry, you do realise that if you were to come anywhere near the Thunderbirds, you'd have to swear to a pact of secrecy?"

Jeff had only been back in the waiting room for ten minutes at the most, but already he was working to try and piece together in his mind a picture of how trustworthy the Lynfields would truly be. There were many people in the world that were compassionate people, until someone waved a stack of bills in their face and caused them to spill their secrets.

"Of course!" Harry nodded in agreement. "It makes sense. Jeff, I wouldn't want to see those ships in the hands of anyone, especially this government. Or any government. Ships like that are a waste when used for war. They're beauts, all of them, and they should be in the hands of pilots who know how to fly 'em. Coming from a pilot, that's my opinion."

"So . . ." Jeff trailed off, trying to settle on a way to vocalise what he was thinking. "If you had a chance to gain their trust, how would you prove that you were trustworthy?" He prodded Scott, who had started to snort quietly, in the ribs to shush him up.

Pinching his lips, Harry took a deep breath. "Well, that's a hard question. I guess, at least in their eyes, nothing'd be stopping me from taking their secrets and running to the nearest guy that's waving a bag of loot. I'm sure their stuff would catch the eye of a lot of different organisations, including the American military." The man's brow furrowed in disgust. "I guess I don't really have any way to prove my trust, except to give them my word. I wouldn't want to see their stuff used for bad purposes. Hell, it's my job to keep people safe every day while they fly. With ships like that in the wrong hands, who knows what could happen to me and my passengers! I just wouldn't want to see that happen."

A smile slowly worked its way onto Jeff's face. He turned to Scott, and the two of them nodded in unison. "How about you, Amy?"

"Same way," she responded firmly. "They're good people, and there're too few of those in the world today. No amount of money is worth that."

"Even millions?"

A ghost of emotion crossed the couple's faces, then faded as rapidly as it had appeared. "Millions would be nice," Harry finally sighed, "but I have my principles. And I stick to them. Now, I might sell out the American government to International Rescue if it would help them, but you didn't hear me say that."

That settled it. "Scott, scan the room."

"Right." Reaching into his pocket, the young man withdrew a small palm pilot like device and waved it around the room.

Suddenly intrigued, Harry leaned forward in his chair and gave Scott a confused look. "What the heck is that thing? You're not supposed to have electronics in here!" He turned to look at his wife, then back to Scott. "You're not with the government, are you? Because if you are, I've already told you, I don't know anything about them! And I don't know anything about you, either, for that matter. I couldn't sell you out if I wanted to!"

"Calm down," Scott muttered, his eyes focused on the device. "We're not with the government, and this thing is perfectly safe. It runs on a tight beam that won't interfere with hospital equipment. That'd defeat the purpose of using it on the emergency field if it didn't."

"We're exactly who we said we were," Jeff added, leaning over to see the screen of the electromagnetic scanner. "Anything?"

"No." Replacing the device in his pocket, Scott gave a long sigh of relief. "Room's clear. I didn't think it would be bugged, but it never hurts to check."

"Then what was that?"

"A scanner," Jeff replied calmly, "to make sure that we weren't being spied on. Now," he looked towards the door, "Scott, if you would be so kind as to keep watch, I can tell these good people what is going on."

"Right." Jumping up from his chair, the young man walked over to the door and laid his head against the metal. "Coast is clear."

Nodding, Jeff pulled out his personal organiser again and set it on his lap. "Harry and Amy, what I'm about to tell you must be kept in the strictest of confidence. You must never reveal this information to anyone; not family, not friends, not anyone that you would trust with your life unless we give you the explicit permission to."

The other man sat silently for a moment, his face serious, his eyes directed slightly towards his wife. "I hear you. What's this about?"

How to say it? That was always the part that Jeff found hardest when hiring agents. He had recruited dozens of men and women across the world, yet he always found it hard to explain the situation to them without causing an unneeded air of excitement or – worse – panic.

"Have you ever wondered," he finally began, "where International Rescue gets their funding?"

That comment stopped Harry's wandering eyes dead. They immediately darted back to Jeff's face, growing wider by the second. "Of course, who doesn't? But does that . . ." He stopped talking and took to simply staring at Jeff in shock.

Ready to launch into a more general explanation, Jeff looked to Scott, who nodded, then turned back to the Lynfields. "International Rescue is a top secret organisation that is funded by one man and one man only. A single family operates the main branch, the rescue division, although they employ nearly a hundred agents around the world to keep tabs on things and to serve as intelligence operatives when a situation needs to be scouted out. There is no government intervention. They have no political affiliations, and no economic ties save the ones that allow them to purchase and maintain their craft . . ."

"With Tracy Industries," Harry finished quietly, catching onto what Jeff was hinting at. "Good Lord."

"Would you like to know more?"

Somewhat tentatively, the couple nodded in unison. "Are you allowed to tell us more?"

"Of course."

"Your leader gave you permission?"

"Oh!" A laugh he escaped Jeff's mouth, and he waved his hand in the air apologetically. "In a way, yes. I _am_ the commander-in-chief of the organisation. My family, my sons," he nodded slightly towards Scott, "fly the ships. As do I."

Several long moments passed before either Harry or Amy said anything in response. They simply sat, mulling the revelation over. Finally, the man turned abruptly towards Scott and pointed a long finger directly at him. "You _have _flown a scram! I knew it."

"It makes sense," Amy added suddenly. "After reading all about your family . . ." She smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, but whenever the Tracy family does anything it winds up in the gossip columns. But your sons . . ."

"Failures," Jeff laughed lightly, knowing where the woman was going. "All of them. Living at home in their twenties. Scott quit the air force to pilot Thunderbird One. Virgil passed up an engineering scholarship to come work in our lab. John left NASA to help us as well. Gordon . . ." All of the enthusiasm that had built in Jeff's chest flooded out like the breaking of a dam. Leaving the sentence unfinished, he leaned backward slowly in his chair and tried to compose himself.

"Gordon wasn't going to join," he finally continued quietly. "He wanted to apply for WASP as soon as he turned eighteen. He . . ." It was too much. Shaking his head, Jeff looked towards the organiser on his lap and tried to hold in his emotions. He failed. "Made a mistake. And I couldn't do anything to help him."

"We couldn't have helped Gordon," Scott argued from the door. "We all know that, Dad."

"We could have helped the girl. We had the equipment. But we couldn't do anything because Gordon was involved!" A wave of emotions and feelings thundered through the man, and he banged his fist in frustration. "We would have been identified. That would have been it. We couldn't risk the entire organisation to help one girl! And . . ." He sagged in the chair. "It wasn't that. I would have given anything to help him. But I couldn't leave him . . ."

Those words hurt so much to speak. They were the truth, but the truth, as Jeff had discovered after many years of experience, was often not easy. "I don't even know if Gordon will be all right," he whispered to no one in particular. "That's the worst part. I was able to do nothing to help him. I stood there, completely helpless, because of a choice that he had made himself."

Jeff couldn't blame himself. What could he have done differently? Nothing. But he had trusted his son to make the right choice, and that had quite obviously been a mistake. A forgivable mistake, perhaps, one that parents were forced to make as their children grew up, but a mistake none the less. What would have happened had he made Gordon stay at the hotel, or if he had sent Scott with him to watch him?

He had given a seventeen-year-old boy his trust in the hopes that he was mature enough to make the right choices. After all, with so much on the line the coming morning, he had assumed that Gordon wouldn't be foolish enough to do anything that would jeopardise his participation in the race.

But it didn't matter. He should have known, he should have anticipated the problem. How, Jeff didn't know, for he didn't even know for sure what had caused the incident. But Gordon had a history of causing trouble . . . he had a history of getting in over his head. No matter how old he grew, that never seemed to change.

He should have known. They both should have.

"Dad."

Jeff looked up to find Scott standing in front of him, his hand placed firmly on his father's shoulder in a show of support. The young man's expression was grave and harsh, and when he spoke it was with no apology.

"Dad, don't blame yourself for this. An accident happened, Gordon made a mistake as far as we can tell, and that is that."

"But what if it wasn't a mistake? What if it really was an accident . . ."

"Then accidents happen," Scott insisted. "We know that. We don't have to like that fact, but it is a fact, Dad. But you need to pull through this. We all do. Do you think Gordon would like it if we were all upset because of him? No! He'd be angry with us. He'd yell, Dad. Think about it."

He _did_ think about it, then, and he saw the truth in Scott's words. Gordon could be loud, he could be arrogant, but in one very distinct way he had matured greatly – he was very rarely selfish on purpose. And Jeff, thinking of what his son's reaction would be could he see his father now, knew that Gordon would be angry with himself for having put his family in such a situation. It would probably appear that he was angry with his family . . . but Jeff knew that that would never be the case.

"Now," Scott concluded quietly, "let's finish up with these people and stop making them feel uncomfortable." He gave his father's shoulder a tight squeeze. "We can get through this. We always have."

Sighing, Jeff replied, "You're right. Sometimes I don't know what I'd do without you boys here."

He did know, of course. He would have fallen into the same state of mind that he'd fallen into years ago when Lucy had died. The feeling of being lost, the confusion – it didn't matter whether he was calm or crying on his knees. The inability to pick his own course in such a situation was what seemed to damn him. Thankfully, there were those people, his sons, who were bright enough to see their father's mistakes when even he couldn't.

Looking back towards the Lynfields, who were watching the exchange with a certain degree of uncertainly, Jeff smiled apologetically and offered, "Every man should have a son like this."

And before the Lynfields could respond, Jeff's organiser began to emit a quiet beeping noise that signalled a transmission from Thunderbird Five. Shaking his head in amusement, Jeff mouthed, "One moment," then quickly activated the transmitter in the device. A second passed, then John's face appeared in the monitor screen. His expression was grave, and Jeff wondered what his son had uncovered that had caused him to appear so unsettled.

"I did a little research," the space monitor began slowly, the tone of his voice suggesting apprehension at sharing the information. "I think I know what happened."

The revelation was not unexpected in itself, but the speed with which it had been delivered startled Jeff. "There's hardly been time for an investigation. How did you . . ."

"Several ways." John shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Several . . . not very legal ways . . ."

"None of what you do is legal," Jeff sighed, growing impatient with his son's avoidance of the truth. "Now what did you do?"

"I think we should go get something to drink," interrupted Harry suddenly, standing up from his chair. "Amy, don't you think so?"

Knowing what the man was up to, Jeff shot him a thankful look, then turned back to his organiser as the couple left the room. "All right, John, they're gone. Now I want the truth. Now, not later."

"I broke into the recreation center's surveillance system," the blond blurted out, his face turning red with embarrassment. "They were running a digital network linked to a mainframe surveillance company based in Central USA. The data transfer was done via an incredibly secure internet path, which was how I was able to break in. No internet path is completely secure."

"I'm impressed that you thought of that!"

The comment only served to heighten the young man's blush. "I've . . . had to do something like it on several occasions. Not for anything bad," he added quickly, though Jeff didn't suspect John of doing anything truly wrong with the data access that he had. "I was a little messy this time. I don't think I was caught, though, since they haven't sent out any online searches yet for my digital address."

"All right. So what did you find?"

The transformation that went over John's face was extraordinary. It was if he were fighting a war within himself: one side tried to maintain a face of control, the other wanted desperately to convey some feeling that was hidden inside of him. Eventually the emotional side won out, and John closed his eyes and slammed his fists hard against his computer console. His face was livid with raw frustration.

"The little bugger, it was his fault. And I don't blame him."

* * *

Somewhere, in a remote part of the United States, a warning bell went off at a security facility. Someone somewhere had tapped into a line, though the offender had already fled without leaving any tracks. Any noticeable tracks, at least. But to those who were watching closely, the digital exhaust trails had not yet faded.

Somewhere, in the far reaches of the world, a group of hackers saw the alert and began to tap into the data source. Using equipment far superior to that of the security sector, they saw the trail left and began to follow. It took so very little time to pinpoint the breach, and the origin of the breach, that their actions went undetected at the other end.

Somewhere, in the sprawling jungles of Malaysia, one man smiled when a set of co-ordinates came up onto a computer screen. Someone had been sloppy, he thought, when they were normally very careful. Someone had been in a hurry, and had let their secret slip.

The game was on. Someone in the future was going to suffer for their mistake.

* * *

The tall figure of Scott Tracy was waiting at the front doors of the hospital when Virgil, Alan, and Fermat arrived. He leaned heavily against the wall of the entrance room, watching out from behind the glass as his brothers made their way up the pavement and towards the building. Virgil finally caught sight of Scott several feet from the door and quickly ran the rest of the way. Throwing the door open, he stumbled into the entrance room and gasped, "Is he all right?"

Catching Virgil so that he wouldn't fall, Scott shook his head. "I don't know. He's still in surgery right now." He glanced over briefly as Alan and Fermat finally entered as well. "The nurse said that it could take another hour at least."

"Is he out yet?" Alan asked, having not heard his brother's question. "Scott?"

"No." Sure that Virgil was stable on his feet, Scott began to walk down the hallway towards the elevators. The group passed by several receptionist desks before anyone spoke again.

"If you don't m-m-m-mind me asking," Fermat stuttered from behind, "what were his injuries?"

At first reaction, Scott found himself irritated by the question. It was, after all, pretty frankly spoken given the circumstances. But the more that he thought about it, the more he realised that it was a valid one, and one that would eventually need to be answered.

Every spoken word hurt Scott as much as the injuries likely had Gordon. "Second and third degree burns on his right side, which was the direction of impact on the water. Five broken ribs, cracked skull, and various fractures all over his body. I can't even remember them all." Having reached the elevator, Scott hit the up arrow and waited for the cart to appear.

"He should be all right, then, if the head injury isn't too bad," Virgil muttered absently. "Was there any internal damage?"

"A little, I think, from the crash harness. Nothing that can't be fixed, though." Taking a deep breath, Scott prepared himself for the revelation that hurt the most. "Apparently when the craft hit the water, the force of the impact jerked the seats. The guy that Gord was riding with snapped his neck. Died instantly."

He heard Virgil suck in his breath at the words.

"The thing is," Scott continued, as the elevator opened and the boys stepped in, "the doctors don't know how bad it hurt Gord. The concussion is pretty bad, so even if he wakes up . . ." He trailed off. It took several deep breaths before he was able to continue. "There could be all sorts of spinal and nerve damage. The nurse didn't want to say too much – Dad was already at the point of hysteria – but she sort of hinted that there was damage to nerves in the neck."

He didn't have to explain what that meant. All of the boys were familiar with the hazards of travelling in a vehicle, and had been educated thoroughly at school about wearing seatbelts and the horrors of being paralysed after an accident.

"So, he's . . ." The words escaped Virgil's mouth as little more than whispered phantoms. The briefest hint of anger flashed onto his face, and he slammed the close button of the elevator with his hand. "Damn. Damn it!"

Looking to the two younger boys, Scott saw that they were staring silently at the ground. For Fermat the situation was obviously awkward, given that he was not a direct part of the family. For Alan, however, it had to be horrible, and the boy's silence did nothing to reassure Scott. He could handle his father's confusion, could deal with John's faked apathy, could understand Virgil's anger at his brother's poor decision . . .

But he had no idea what Alan was thinking. The blond simply stood in one place, his hands at his sides, his eyes staring off blankly into space. There was no emotion there, only an empty and disconcerting look. It really made Scott wonder. Gordon was their brother after all; how could Alan act as though nothing had happened? Sure, John was the same way, but that was his own way of dealing with stress. There was no doubt that he was upset.

"Alan, if you want to talk about it . . ."

"No." The response was abrupt. "I don't want to."

The faintest trace of fear was present in the boy's voice, and though Scott did not like to see his brothers upset, it made him feel a bit better to see that Alan did indeed feel some emotion about the entire episode. He had been worried that Alan's relationship with his brother would somehow affect his ability to worry, but that apparently was not the case. A fresh wave of guilt hit Scott when he looked at Alan, and realised that the boy was anything but apathetic.

The behaviour of his family was worrying, but it was to be expected. Even Scott himself was worried sick to the point of being ill, and there was no way to escape that even if he wanted to. Some moments in life were simply cruel and difficult, and nothing could be gained from them in the way of comfort. For a family who had already lost one member, the precarious position that Gordon was in was hauntingly familiar.

The elevator chimed once, causing Scott to look up. Floor twelve had arrived quickly, almost too quickly for his liking. It had been a blessing to escape the waiting room for even a few short minutes, and the jaunt outside had cleared his mind immensely. Now, though, the harsh reality of the situation sunk in again. It was as though the rooms of the hallway were pressing in on him, crushing the air from his lungs so that it was hard to breathe.

"The waiting room's just down this way," he explained, pointing at a closed door at the end of the hall. "Dad's probably alone by now. We had some company earlier, but they left to go see their son." He couldn't help the sarcasm that seeped into his tone. "I don't know how long we'll be waiting."

The other three nodded silently and followed their brother down the hall.

* * *

Fifty-three minutes. They were, Virgil was quite sure, the longest fifty-three minutes of his life. Though he had initially been relieved to see his father, and had even found some support in the man's strong presence – for even when the older man was upset he still possessed the stamina of a fatherly figure - as the minutes had worn on and conversation had abated, he had found the room to be more and more despicable.

Fifty-three minutes. The plane ride from the island had taken much longer than that. It had been nearly six hours since he had left, and even the rocket engines on the craft had not been enough to take him to Florida in enough time to see his brother. Nothing, short of a miracle or a magical portal, would have been quick enough for that. And now he waited.

Fifty-three minutes. It seemed like a short enough period of time, especially when his mind was occupied with other things. Six hours of flying? That was nothing, even without the distraction of being in full control of the plane. A five-hour school exam? That was a breeze compared to the time that he was being forced to sit in the waiting room.

At that point, all other thoughts had left his mind, and he was left only with the immeasurable desire to see that his brother was all right. Reality, not more anger, had arrived along with him at the hospital. The severity of his brother's injuries was plain. There was no suggestion as to how long he would be on the operating table; no one knew for sure.

No one knew if he would wake up, even.

Burying those thoughts deep inside of him, Virgil continued to stare out at the ceiling, in hopes that some news would arrive before fifty-four minutes passed.

It did.

The nurse entered quietly, flipped a few pages in her clipboard, and then smiled a smile that wasn't really one.

"Mr. Tracy, your son has just been removed from the O.R. and is being transferred into recovery. It will be a few minutes yet until you can see him, but once he's settled in a room you will be allowed in. Doctor Grant informed me that the surgery went well, though we have yet to see what the permanent effects of the accident will be. Pressure on the brain was kept to a minimum, and he is expected to awaken in a few hours when the effects of the anaesthesia wear off. I will come get you when the room is ready."

* * *

Nearly a half an hour later, the four members present from the Tracy family and their young companion were herded quietly into a large and spacious room on the top floor of the hospital. The walls, painted a sterile white, reflected from a large degree of cleanliness. The expansive east-facing window showed a lightening sky, and a warm orange sun that peeked over the horizon to bathe the landscape in a deep magenta glow. The clouds were purple in hue, meshing with the pink background to colour the buildings of Tampa Beach red.

Even the room itself glowed red, as the sunlight bounced from wall do wall, reflecting off the polished plaster until every surface, every sheet, ever face that stood there, looked as though it were on fire.

Only the face of the young man on the bed, his legs and torso covered in white linen his upper body in hospital clothes and countless feet of tubing, remained untouched by the glow. Instead, shadowed by a pillow's edge, Gordon's face maintained a pale complexion, removed from the warm rays of the sun. Even the ginger hair was subdued, shaved off to nothing in some spots, stubble in others, and wrapped up in other spots under the gentle white gauze that the doctors had applied.

Silently, unmoving, unable to say whatever was on their minds, the five stood at the foot of the bed and gazed at the passive face of their family member. They waited for the time to arrive when the young man would stir and open his eyes and look into theirs once again. They waited for some sign of life to return to the body that was feeding off so many machines for life.

They waited for Gordon Tracy to return from the land of the dead, and they hoped that the return journey would be as quick and sudden as the trip there. It was all they could do. Sound had no bearing on the situation. Words had no meaning.

Nothing mattered but the keeping of the silent guard at the foot of the bed. As the sun continued to rise and the hue of the room intensified, they did not stir, save to find a seat or a cushion to rest on. Their eyes never left the pale face that had yet to be touched by the life-giving beams from the sky.

And so they remained, until the sun was nearly at a zenith in the sky and Gordon Tracy found the strength to regain consciousness and open his eyes.

* * *

**TBC in "Restitution"**


	32. Restitution

* * *

_Dislcaimer: Thunderbirds is the property of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, as well as Carlton and Universal. No profit is intended to be made from this story; it is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended, and none should be inferred. All original characters are the property of the author. This story should not be used or copied without the expressed written consent of the author._

**A/N:** Remember to check my author profile page (just click on my user name) for extended author notes and review responses! I will also be sending the author notes as review replies to all users who left me a signed review. A huge thank-you goes out to Ariel D for beta reading this chapter. Without her, it would not have happened.

* * *

**Blood is Thicker Than Water: Part III  
****Restitution  
****May 2019

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**

_**Dedicated to everyone who has found the strength to carry on after a fall – and to those who are no longer with us, who were never given the chance to try.**__**

* * *

**_

It all happened so quickly that he barely had time to ponder the implications. The first sign of the coming change came with the sudden sensation of visible light. After spending an unfathomable amount of time in shear blackness, the addition of a dull red glow to his sensory experience was extraordinary. Then came the feelings, as the watery void that he floated in slowly faded away to be replaced by the gentle and comforting feel of cotton.

Finally came the sound, so abrupt with its entrance that he was startled out of whatever landscape it was that had taken hold of his mind. The murkiness vanished, to be replaced by a crisp quietness that had a startling clarity to it, though no specific sound could be heard. All lingering feelings of the surreal world disappeared, leaving behind only the calmer and more reasonable land that he knew as reality.

The light was the sun filtering through his eyelids, he realised with a start. And the cotton material had the feeling of bed sheets.

As his mind reawakened, Gordon Tracy fought back a wave of intense drowsiness and forced his eyelids to open. An intense wave of white light caught him in the face, blinding him and causing him to close his eyes in pain. After finally waking, even the mild surroundings of the real world seemed harsh to him, overloading his senses and making him almost wish that he were back asleep.

Asleep? He hadn't been asleep . . . the lingering feeling of paralysis that ran through his body, the telltale signs of medication and anaesthetic, was familiar enough that he recognised it almost immediately. But with that recognition, and the awakening of another portion of his body, came a more painful recognition.

When he weighed the amount of painkiller that had to be in his body with the dull and piercing throb that pervaded most of his body parts, he came to realise just how injured he really was. How, he didn't know. That part of his mind was still foggy. The piece that held the past and the memories of how he had arrived in the room had not yet awakened.

Still unsure of where he was, Gordon opened his eyes and second time and squinted into the light, giving the retina time to adjust to the sudden increase in brilliance. Ever so slowly the light began to dim, and he was able to make out various shapes in the room. White dominated as a colour, explaining why everything was so bright, though there were dark splotches as well at various points around the room.

Then his eyes fell onto the bed that he was lying on. The white linen smelled of bleach, and the inexplicable tubing that ran across the surface . . .

A hospital. He was in a hospital.

A groan escaped Gordon's lips, the air digging into and burning his throat, and he noticed for the first time the oxygen mask fitted to his face. As his senses returned even stronger, he became aware of the other intrusions – the IV tubes in both arms, the odd sensation of cloth against the top of his head, the pain in his chest every time he took a breath.

But the most horrific thing of all, even more so than all of the other accumulated injuries and equipment additions, was the dawning realisation that he couldn't feel anything below the level of his stomach. His lower abdomen, his legs – there was nothing there. No feeling, no hint of existence on any level. It was not the absence of tissue caused by the mind-altering effects of heavy medications. It was something more disturbing than that.

Moaning loudly, and taking no notice of the shapes that suddenly jumped about and rushed to the bed, Gordon tried desperately to bring about any form of sensation to his lower half. He wanted to move, wanted so dearly to wiggle his toes, but he wasn't even able to tell where his toes were.

His next move, to try and sit up to see better, was a mistake. The attempt to shift his body sent a wave of pain through his chest that nearly doubled him over where he lay. A thousand burning needles dug into his body, cutting at him from every direction, including the portion of his mind that still lay dormant.

The brutal effect was enough to break the barrier that held back what remained of his unconscious mind. Suddenly, the memories of everything past – including the previous night – came flooding forward as if finally released from a waterway. With them came a sickening pain as he remembered what he had done to himself, and an even greater and more devastating feeling as he remembered and realised what he had done to three other individuals.

Overcome with the revelation, Gordon clenched his eyes shut and let a raw and animalistic scream escape his lips. He had no words for what he felt. He couldn't explain the pain that coursed through his body and his mind. And he knew that he would never be able to eliminate the horror that was rising in his chest, the horror that spoke of the consequences of his own actions and the repercussions that those actions had had on the rest of the world.

It would have been better, he thought fiercely as the tears came and burned his eyes, had the memories never returned. He hadn't escaped death by any means. No, hell was real, and very tangible.

Hell was what he had to deal with nowin the realm of the living.

* * *

After so many hours of waiting, Jeff Tracy was caught unprepared for the moment when his son finally awoke. It happened so quickly. The boy's eyes opened groggily, blinked a few times, and then widened with a horror that was unknown to anyone else in the room. It was the oxygen mask muffled scream, though, that truly shook Jeff to the bone. It would have been inhumane to expect Gordon to not react to his situation, but the blood-curdling moan that pierced the air was almost unbearable to listen to. 

Moving to the bedside, Jeff grabbed hold of Gordon's hand and squeezed it tight in his, taking care not to disrupt any of the tubing or tape that clung to the skin. A million emotions rushed through his body; relief that his son was awake, fear for his son's sanity, anger at his son's actions, and so many others that he couldn't even begin to identify.

It was Scott's steady hand on Jeff's own shoulder that brought the man out of his state of confusion. One step at a time, Jeff thought, taking strength from the warm clasp, saying the words over and over again in his mind until they stayed there. It would do no good to lash out illogically, especially when Gordon seemed to be past the point of conversation. _Deal with things one step at a time._

"Gordon." Kneeling down, Jeff bent in close to his son's head, feeling Gordon's pain in his own stomach as the boy cringed in agony from trying to move again. His fingers dug into Jeff's hand on one side, and the soft white linen of the bed on the other. "Gordon. Try to stay still."

The words hung in the air, and the only response was the dull beep of the various monitors in the room. Glancing up to Scott, Jeff found no answer there either, only a deep and reassuring trust for whatever he chose to do.

"Gordon. Try to calm down."

It was only then that, purely by accident, he noticed the lack of movement near the end of the bed. While the sheets around the young man's chest were rumpled by straining limbs, the linen near his feet remained unmoved, essentially untouched since the nurses had first placed him into the bed. Realisation struck, and Jeff felt his own eyes widening with horror. The doctors had warned them, of course, but he had hoped all the same . . .

Ever so quietly, a collective breath was drawn in the room as four other sets of eyes slowly came to rest on the same thing. It was all Jeff could do to keep a distinctly audible noise from leaving his lips. He couldn't. None of them could. One thing he had learned as a father, over countless years and countless situations, was that those who were not in trouble had to remain strong. Lucy had taught him that. International Rescue had taught him that.

His sons had taught him that.

With that thought, John's words echoed again in his mind: _"Sitting around stewing will only make things worse, and someone down there needs to keep a clear head."_

A clear head. Gordon had enough to deal with on his own. He didn't need to worry about the rest of his family.

"Gordon." There, that was better. The tone was calmer, more in control. "If you don't keep still, you'll hurt yourself."

The words worked like magic. The twitching of the redhead's limbs gradually slowed. His breathing became more regular, and soon the only remaining motion in his entire body was the alternating waves of fear and pain that flooded across his face and permeated his eyes.

"Dad?" The words came out as a cracked whisper, but they may as well have been shouted for the reaction that they caused. The other boys quickly leapt into action from where they stood, taking places around the bed so that they could hear better.

"I'm here," Jeff acknowledged, keeping Gordon's hand tight in his. "You're in the hospital." In the background, a door slammed against the wall as a nurse came in. They had obviously been monitoring the boy's brain waves and were able to see when he finally regained consciousness.

Shoes on tile echoed as the nurse approached the bedside. She came to a stop a good distance from the actual bed, respectfully remaining back until the family was finished. In her arms she carried a carefully stapled booklet of papers, legal work that likely needed to be finished.

A long and shuddering breath racked the redhead's body. "I know. I know that." His voice began to break as he spoke, once again showing signs of the clear stress that had been present moments earlier. "Oh God."

As hard as he tried, Jeff was unable to find the words needed to respond to such a comment. He had thought that it would be easier this time. Gordon was alive, after all. He would continue to live.

But looking at his son, his face pale as the sheets on the bed, Jeff knew then that there was no difference. Beads of sweat ran down the boy's cheeks like water. One of his own was suffering, and he couldn't bear to see that.

That realisation made his next thought all the harder to accept. Jeff truly didn't know how much Gordon remembered from the previous night. He obviously saw something in his mind, some scathing memory of the incident, for that reflected clearly in his eyes. The older man had seen, had dealt, with enough trauma victims to see the symptoms clearly.

But there was no way that Gordon could know the entire truth of what happened. Sometime he was going to have to find out, and when he did . . . Could he really justify causing his son more pain than he already had?

In the end, Jeff did not end up making the choice. Strangely enough, as if reading his father's mind, Gordon made the decision for him.

"Are they . . ." Unable to finish the sentence, Gordon closed his eyes tightly, moisture rimming the edges.

Jeff didn't ask who 'they' were. For Gordon at the moment there was only one reality – the reality of the water that he had left, and the people that he had left behind. There was the truth of the incident, the truth that he already knew, and the confirmation of that truth that he had now asked to be given.

Sparing his father from answering, Scott replied in the cold voice of a professional, "The other three people involved died at the scene. WASP divers were able to pull you from the wreck before your air ran out."

From somewhere behind Jeff's back, Virgil cleared his throat uneasily and said nothing.

"The doctors gave you a seventy-five percent chance of regaining consciousness," Scott continued, "so you've beaten the hard part."

_The hard part_, Jeff thought incredulously, marvelling at how concise his son could be in such difficult situations. The words were so hollow. Anyone could see that the difficult part would not be the physical recovery but the emotional one.

If Gordon heard his brother's words, he showed no sign. He simply lay on the bed, his eyes closed, his hands occasionally grasping at the blankets in the direction of his legs. He seemed lost once again in a dream world, even past the point of feeling the pain.

Jeff understood that feeling. Morphine could remove physical discomforts, but the human mind could also reach a point when it simply could not comprehend or handle any more emotions. At that point, the human consciousness would withdraw to a point that no one else could reach or touch. Jeff had been there himself, once. He had been leaning on the edge of a bed, as he was now, and had been completely unable to understand what he saw in front of him. It had not been denial then. No, it had been something rawer and more obvious:

There had simply been too much to handle.

A feeling of helplessness washed through him again, and Jeff gently reached a hand to stroke his son's face. He understood what Gordon was going through; he had been there himself, once. They all had to a certain extent. He could explain it to him, reassure him, and tell him that things would be all right . . .

Looking down at his son, who was now so obviously lost in his grief that it made Jeff sick, he also remembered that the words of others meant little when a person was burdened so deeply with pain. Before a hand could be extended, before a pair of eyes could see the fingers and take the hand in theirs, something else had to happen first.

"We're here," he whispered, strengthened with the knowledge that his son could hear him, and saddened that his son could not respond. "We'll be here with you until you wake up again. I have to go and fill out some paperwork, but I'll be back right away."

There was nothing more to be done. The next move, the critical move, was up to Gordon alone. Somehow he had to weigh his thoughts in his mind, decide which of them was important, and throw the rest to the side.

Letting go of his son's hand was the hardest thing that Jeff Tracy had ever done in his life. Nine years ago, when he had let go of Lucy's hand, even amidst the pain and the blooming denial, he had known that she was gone. There had been nothing left to do except let go.

"Hang in there."

But Gordon . . . no matter how much pain he was in, no matter how devastated he was both physically and mentally . . .

He was still alive. That was something to hold onto.

* * *

Somehow, inadvertently, Virgil found himself alone in the hospital room. He knew where the rest of his family was, of course. His father was busy filling out the admittance papers, which had been neglected and blind-eyed by the hospital staff since Gordon's admittance. Scott was off in a washroom somewhere – from what Virgil had been told – and was trying to communicate with John. Alan and Fermat were trying to find a cafeteria in the hopes that they could bring some lunch to the room by the time that everyone else returned. 

So he sat at the bedside, unsure of what else to do, yet unable to do anything _but_ sit and watch his brother.

Virgil absently reached a hand to ruffle Gordon's hair, then remembered the bandage that covered most of the teen's scalp. There were bandages everywhere, really. White gauze covered the wounds, hiding the crimson colour of blood . . . but also hiding the burning orange locks that was Gordon's trademark. Just as the hair was gone, so was the fiery disposition that normally accompanied it.

He slept so soundly, Virgil thought in dismay. He had shared a room with Gordon ever since the younger boy had been born, and he knew how his brother slept. He slept the same way that he lived – high-strung, tense, and with boundless energy. That was not what Virgil saw when he looked towards the bed. The shallow breaths, the complete lack of movement of the limbs – if he hadn't known that his brother was drugged, then he would have been sure that he was dead.

That thought smacked Virgil right in the face. Gordon was far from being all right, for although the doctor's had guaranteed his survival after he had awoken the first time, there was no denying the other more subtle damage that had been caused by the crash. His brother was obviously experiencing a kind of pain that Virgil had never felt himself – that born of guilt. That, at least according to the doctors, was what was causing the comatose state that Gordon was in. There was no way of knowing when he would wake up again, just as there was no longer any way of knowing what was going on inside the boy's mind.

It was funny, thinking about the entire incident after seeing his brother scream in agony from the mental trauma of it all. He had been so angry at first, so disappointed with Gordon that he had done something so completely stupid. And even though he had been immensely worried during the flight to Florida, a part of him had wanted to someone tell his brother what he had done wrong.

And now, thinking back to the screams and the horror that they had sent down his spine, Virgil was willing to give up anything to protect his brother from the memories that were eating at him from the inside. Punishment? He had been a fool to think that Gordon would get away without paying some kind of restitution. If Gordon was even half the person that Virgil knew he was, then there was no way he could continue to live and not be ashamed at his actions.

There might even be a court case from the incident. Virgil didn't know what was happening on the legal front, but there was always the possibility that one of the other three families would sue for damages. Even if it hadn't entirely been Gordon's fault, there was still the possibility.

Yet, when weighed side by side, would that even come close to the pain that Gordon's own conscience was causing him?

"We saw the video tape," he whispered, feeling awkward speaking when Gordon was asleep, but wondering all the same if his brother could actually hear him. "John pulled the file from the marina. We saw everything."

The teen lay unmoving, his eyes closed.

It wasn't hard to continue. The words poured from his mouth, and Virgil didn't care who heard them, or who happened to hear them other than his brother. It was Gordon who needed it.

"Sometimes you do the stupidest things. I don't know why you do them. When I would shut up and take the blows, you would jump in and fight back. Know what? I'm proud of you." Shaking his head, Virgil looked inside for some strength to continue. "In your own way, you were fighting for us. When all the rest of us would have let that guy run over us, you stood strong. You didn't give in. I don't know what happened on the water, but I saw what happened in that building, and I'm not angry at you."

A monitor beeped quietly in the background.

"I can't be. I just can't be. I think you did what was right. Maybe that's because you're my brother, and I-" His voice broke, and Virgil quickly wiped at his face with his sleeve. The anger building in his chest was not aimed at his brother, but at himself for not being able to say what needed to be said.

"I love you. I don't care what happened back there. Whatever it was, it's in the past. I just want you to be all right. I want you to be here, now, in the present." He took his brother's hand in his, and leaned down so that his forehead just brushed the sheets that covered the teen's waist. "I guess I blame myself for this. I should have told you this a long time ago. We all should have. If I'd been a good brother, I would have told you how I feel about your attitude. We all should have; there are so many times that we should have stopped you, so many times we should have talked to you. But we didn't.

"We were worried about you, but we didn't say anything because we wanted to leave it all up to you. We took it for granted that you were all right. But if you'd known how we felt, what we thought, then maybe you could have walked away from that guy. You had to go it alone there, and I'm so sorry that you had to. I saw it in the way you stood up to that guy. You stood up for us, like it was your duty. Like you were the only one in the world who could do that. You didn't turn to us for help. You couldn't turn to us. You had to do it alone, because you didn't know what we felt because we'd never told you. You were in that situation because you were the only one there who knew the truth about us. About our family.

"Maybe we took that for granted too. We just expected you to cope . . . and you did - on your own. And because of that, because you tried to do the right thing, because you tried to not get in a fight and tarnish our reputation, you made a mistake. I can't pretend that I know how you're feeling. I can't even pretend that I _want_ to know how you're feeling, because no one should have to experience that. I guess all that I can do now is sit here and say I'm sorry. I guess I'm just too late with all of this."

Taking a deep breath, he continued. "This may not make you feel better. I doubt anything could. But those other three people – they made the same choice that you did. They knew the risks. And if any of them were still alive now, and you were dead, I think they'd be feeling the same way. I don't have an answer to that. I don't know why you survived and they didn't. You'd think I would after dealing with that so much at work. But I don't."

When no answer came, Virgil let his head fall onto his brother's body. The linen was soft against his cheeks, and the tears on his face quickly fell and bled into the fabric. It had been a long time since he had cried so openly. There had been times, of course, when he had broken an arm, or had fallen from a tree . . . but then there had been the one other time when the tears had truly mattered. Then, another member of the family had suffered.

"I'm so sorry," he stammered into the cloth. The exhaustion of the day was beginning to weigh heavily on him, and he didn't even try to sit back up. "I wish you'd just wake up again. I know you think you made a mistake. Maybe you did. You're human. But don't make another one. This is about hurting people, and if you don't at least try and wake up – you're gonna be hurting me. You hear that?" He tightened his grip on his brother's hand. "You want a reason for living? If you don't, then there's going to be at least five other people that are going to hurt just as much as you are right now. We love you, and if you love us, then do what's right. I know it's gonna be hard. I know what happened to you. You're not just hurting because of those other people. But if you try, if you give us the chance to help, we can help you get through it."

The last words were a plea.

"Don't give up because it hurts. I'm not trying to convince you that it doesn't, because it's gonna hurt bad. But you're too strong for that. If you give up now, then everything that you did back at that marina is useless. When people make mistakes they're supposed to learn from them. Well, you've got to keep going. Hold up your head." It hurt so much to say the words that normally came from Gordon's own mouth. "If the world hits you, give it the finger and keep going." The words caught in his throat. "If you fall down, if you can't walk anymore, then take someone's hand and pull yourself up. Don't listen to what anyone else tells you. If they say it's impossible, it's not. Anything is possible."

_Don't listen to them._

"Make one more sacrifice. Listen to me. I'm sorry. And I want to do this one more time. I want to do it right."

Virgil waited to hear his brother's voice, the lilting tone filled with laughter that always seemed to find something funny in the world. He waited to hear anything, really. It didn't even have to be a sound. It could have been a feeling, a movement, or some sort of psychic shout for help.

As it became apparent that there would be no answer, the truth of the matter slowly began to settle in. His mind suddenly lost in a fog, Virgil sat up from the bed and took his head in his hands. Either Gordon hadn't heard a word that he had said, or he hadn't cared.

Maybe that was it. Maybe he just didn't care. Maybe Virgil's own thoughts had been right - that he had never offered any direct support to Gordon, had never thought it necessary, and now the results of that choice were lying there before him on stark white bedding.

As quickly as the fog had come it vanished, as every part of Virgil that loved his brother refused to give up.

"Damn it!" The words exploded from his mouth, half a shout and half a sob, and Virgil clenched his jaw. "Gordon!" He was not leaving the room until something happened. "Gordon!"

He had almost abandoned his brother again. He couldn't let that happen.

"Gordon!"

As he brought his arm down hard onto the bed, his body shaking in frustration and grief, he did not notice at first the subtle shifting under the sheets. He didn't notice as the hand that he had held mere moments earlier slowly grasped his forearm in its fingers.

It was the voice that woke him, the hoarse and broken but unmistakably familiar voice that somewhat sardonically remarked, "Cripes, you could wake the dead with that racket."

Snapping around to stare at his brother, Virgil was startled to see Gordon quite awake. His eyes were open again, and from somewhere within the redness of the rims and the bloodshot veins there lay there a tiny twinkle of life. It was nearly lost amongst the hollow pools, amidst the pain that was still so raw and fresh on his face . . . but it was there.

"You're getting my sheets wet."

A smile breaking onto his face amidst the tears, Virgil felt as though he was soaring in the heavens. The words were the sweetest sound that he'd ever heard, more beautiful than any piece of music he could ever hope to touch in his lifetime. "You never give up, do you?"

Shaking his head, Gordon squeezed his brother's arm again and said nothing. He tried several times to speak, twice opening his mouth, only to find his words stifled by the sobs that had begun to escape from between his lips.

There was, once again, no need to speak the words. Not because of the bond that the two shared as brothers, though Virgil knew as he looked at his brother that the connection had never disappeared. It was because the words had _already_ been said and did not need to be repeated. Whether Gordon himself understood the situation, had come to grips with it, Virgil did not know; but he felt overjoyed to know that his pleas had not fallen on deaf ears and that his brother would not be leaving him.

The two simply stared at each other, Gordon's hand still on his brother's arm, Virgil's face still dripping with the tears that he had unintentionally shed. Somehow, during the silent exchange, one thing became very clear to the older boy. Gordon would never mention the situation to anyone; there was no question about it. No matter what happened, no matter what troubles and trials he went through in the coming months, it would remain a private issue.

Virgil had no intention of doing so either. As he sat at the bedside, looking deep into his brother's eyes, he knew that he would never be able to speak about it to _Gordon_ again, let alone the rest of his brothers. It was a moment that would stay between the two of them alone - and if anyone asked why Gordon had finally woken up, what had caused him to finally return to consciousness, the answer would be because he had chosen to.

Love was strong, and it was that bond – that fear of loosing each other – that had likely kept Gordon from making the ultimate mistake.

"I was so worried, Gord," Virgil finally managed to spit out. "So worried . . ."

The fingers tightened their hold reassuringly on his arm. "If it makes you feel any better," he gasped softly, "I hurt too much to have any hope in hell of falling asleep. So if you don't mind, think you could give the nurse a buzz and see if she could hook me up with another container of morphine?"

The closer that Virgil studied his brother's face, the more he came to realise that the teen was indeed in a great deal of pain. The initial danger might be gone, Virgil knew, but the after shocks had already begun to settle in. Mumbling, "Sure," in a somewhat absent manner, Virgil made no move to stand up and continued to sit and stare at his brother. It was so wonderful to see him awake, and he didn't want to leave for fear of coming back to see his brother asleep again. "Promise you'll stay awake?"

"Of course." Gordon replied, then cringed as the action put stress on his lungs. He winced several times, the reflection of injury on his face increasing, until the sensation passed. "This really hurts." The pained expression on his face deepened as a thought flashed across his eyes. "Where's Dad?"

"Dealing with stuff." That was true, as far as Virgil knew. "Same with Scott and Alan."

The teen tilted his head ever so slightly. "Man," he finally decided hoarsely, "I made a mess of things."

Shaking his head, Virgil argued, "No you didn't. We all did. Now let's forget about that and focus on what's happening now."

As much as Virgil hated to prey on his brother's weaknesses, he had anticipated and hoped for the reaction that his words received. As Gordon's brother, he couldn't bring himself to be angry at the teen. But there was restitution to be had, and there was no escaping the consequences of the actions that Gordon had taken. Even if what he had done was, from an open-minded viewpoint, understandable, it did not excuse it.

"Well I'm gonna fix it," the other boy snapped quietly. A look of slowly returning fire burned in his eyes. "I screwed up, so I'm gonna make it better . . ."

His words trailed off as the reality of the situation slowly sank in. Just as quickly as the fire had appeared, it disappeared in a cloud of smoke, leaving behind the scarred and lost visage of someone who was truly lost. "No. No." Biting his lip to stifle back another sob, he let go of Virgil's arm and let his hand fall softly to the bed. "That's what got me in trouble," he finally continued thickly, the words full of regret. "I-" He shook his head, a wave of emotions pooling in his eyes with the returning tears. "I killed three people." The words barely left his mouth before his upper body jumped with the force of a quickly drawn breath. "I couldn't leave it alone. I thought . . ." A quiet gasp escaped his lips. Sobbing, he continued, "I thought I was right. I didn't want to fight him. I thought it would be better that way, Virg. I didn't mean for this to happen."

Virgil couldn't argue with the words. He truly had no more advice left to offer on the issue. It was something that Gordon was going to have to work out on his own. But it was obvious that it would not be easy. He could see it in the way that his brother moved, in the way that he cried with his eyes open, staring up towards the ceiling with the look of a child who was lost.

All through his life Gordon had been able to survive by trusting his own wits. When he hadn't been able to laugh, he had yelled, and when he hadn't yelled, he had fought. What could he do now, though, when there was no way to chuckle off his worries?

What could he do, when the spirit that had always kept him going was responsible for the entire mess?

"Gordon . . ." Unable to form any meaningful words, Virgil let the matter slide. He wanted to say something, anything, that would make things better . . . but words wouldn't do it. Not now, at least, when the pain was so fresh. Perhaps later, when Gordon needed to talk about it, he could be there for him. But it was not the time for that.

Not yet.

"What time is it?" The question slid off the other boy's tongue absently.

"One o'clock in the afternoon. Why?" The answer hit Virgil before Gordon ever answered, and he drew back in anger at himself for not realising what his brother was talking about. One o'clock was the time when Gordon was supposed to race.

For all Virgil could tell, Gordon looked as though he had been knocked down for the final time. Slowly, gradually, the sobs reduced to occasional gasps, and the tears lessened. Realisation _was _beginning to settle in. It was plain on his brother's face. The pained expression did not lessen, but the violent denial with which he had at first responded was giving way to an exhausted look of surrender.

The doctors had robbed the boy of the ginger hair that was his trademark. But he had no one to blame for the loss of the fire within him but himself. There was no antidote for that. No cure in existence could bring back the dead.

"I was really stupid. I was so stupid."

The look that passed across his brother's face was hauntingly familiar; it was a look that Virgil had seen before, on the faces of those whom he rescued on a near daily basis. There was something unique about the eyes of a young man, still a child, really, who had seen something that was past his understanding. Traumatic events seemed to be able to transform an innocent and naïve face into the hardened and enlightened one of an adult.

And now he saw that exact same thing on his own brother's face. For all of the horror that the accident had caused, it had brought about one possibly good turn, one chance at growth, that nothing in the entire world had ever been able to cause in the young man before. It was the thing that, had he possessed it mere hours earlier, might have allowed him to avoid the entire incident.

"So stupid . . ." Gordon repeated softly.

_But it's too late now,_ Virgil remarked silently. _What will it do to you now?_

What, indeed.

"I'm going to go get the nurse," the older boy finally offered quietly. Standing up from his seat, he pulled his arm away from the bed where it had rested in close comfort next to Gordon's. "I'll be back as soon as I can, okay?"

"Okay."

It was time for the healing to start, Virgil thought as he closed the door to the room carefully behind him. What Gordon had tried to do on his own, what he had tried to escape from by running away from the memories, still had to happen. It was already happening. For Gordon had found the strength to realise that he couldn't run from his problems, and that he would have to face, with whatever soul he had left, the memories of the dead. The part of his brother that was good and pure understood its sin, and had come back to atone for it, no matter the pain that it would bring.

"Maybe I can't give you the answers," he whispered absently as he made his way down the corridor. "But at least I tried."

That, perhaps, was the most important thing of all. This time they would be there for Gordon. For if the teen could show the courage to survive through the trials that were likely ahead of him, to admit to his wrongs and persevere for the sake of his family, then that family would stand beside him.

For when, Virgil wondered sadly, things became difficult, when his family tried to go it alone and caused disaster, they found it in themselves to come together and overcome any mountain that lay ahead of them. They had all had trials over the years, had had hard times and trying times that had taken them to the very limits of their endurance.

But if Gordon were truly a Tracy, then, a tiny part of Virgil's mind screamed in hope, he would do what every other member of his family had always done.

Through the horror and the loss, through the anger and the confusion, he would find a way to pull through.

* * *

The funerals took place three days later, two in Iowa, one in Oregon. The service for Simon Towers was especially emotional, as the family of the deceased laid their young man to rest, his silver medal placed gently onto his chest. The Competition Committee had ruled that, pending a further hearing, the accident had been just that – an accident, though perhaps one born of a lack of character and judgement – and that there would be no stripping of medals from the two involved who bore them. 

There was no need to strip medals. To see the pain on the faces of their loved ones was more than enough punishment, and one far harsher than could be gained through the taking of hunks of metal.

One went to his grave a champion, having known no different in life.

A young man watched as his competitor was put to rest, listening as the eulogy was delivered, and seeing, from a hospital bed, how foolish the two champions had both been.

"Simon was a loyal and devoted son to us. He was always there for his family, and he wanted so badly to become something more than the rest of us had ever been. He didn't let his rural upbringings stop him from pursuing his dream. He didn't let forty-hour workweeks mixed with swimming practice stop him from being the best. To the rest of the nation, he was for a brief moment one of their champions. For us, his family, he was that small town boy from Iowa who made his dream come true. And we are thankful that he knew nothing else, for he went to Heaven, God keep him, as a winner."

And the young man wept, as he saw a reflection of himself in the dead.

The second went to her grave as a lover, having known no different in life.

The young man continued to watch as the girl was laid to rest in her grave, her face cold, her eyes never opening again to look at the one whom she had accidentally died for.

"Melissa was the greatest daughter that a man could ask for. If she ever came across as cold, it was only because she saved the warmth of her spirit for her family. She loved life, and loved her family. Our baby girl was not afraid to stand up for what she believed in. She never stood down from a challenge. And we know that, in Heaven, she will be one of God's most trusted angels, and that she will carry His will to the people in the same way that she carried herself in life: without question, and with much love."

And the young man wept again, when he saw what he had unintentionally done to a family and a girl that should never have been involved.

The third was buried on the coast, near the water that he cherished so much, without a medal to wear upon his chest, having known no different in life.

The young man, his closest friend, watched from a hospital bed, unable to hold back the tears as his friend was put to rest when he could not be there.

"Jason loved life. He loved to party, he loved to spend time with his friends – and he loved to live. He didn't care if he never won a single prize in his life. It was the journey that mattered to Jason, and he was determined to make that journey the best it could be for himself and others. In leaving us now, I can only pray that he is leaving us for an eternal adventure greater than anything he could have on this Earth. You're in God's hands now, son. Maybe you can bring a little spark of excitement to Heaven's Gates."

And the young man found himself devoid of tears, for they were useless and did nothing to ease the pain.

* * *

In three consecutive days of mourning, the young man found himself turning inward. He looked to his own heart, and – with the pain and guilt that he had bore since the accident – wrote the eulogy that would go unspoken at a funeral that would not take place. 

_Gordon was a boy who refused to be put down by the world. Even in the worst times, he always had a smile on his face. When the rest of us were sad, he would joke around and make us happy. And when things were left unsaid, he said them, for no one else had the spirit to break the silence. He was kicked an awful lot by the world, but he refused to fall. Even when his mother died he refused to give up. He found in himself a strength that no other individual could give him. _

_But then he took for granted what he had. He still kept fighting, of course. He fought for his family, whom he loved so dearly that he was afraid to loose them. More than that, though, he fought for himself, for the part of him that knew nothing else. He fought when he needed to be silent. He fought battles that should have been left alone._

_Gordon carved a name for himself in the world. He never quit. _

_And he never knew when to give up._

_He climbed into a boat to protect his family's name. In doing that, he showed exactly why his family had come to be thought of as arrogant. God rest you, Son. You made a mistake because you knew nothing better. But now you have no reason to fight. The world isn't out to get you anymore, Gordon. You can rest in peace now._

And the young man refused to let the eulogy become a reality, for the imagined pain in his father's voice as he read the words was more than he could bear. For the sake of that voice, for the sake of his family, he had to continue. It was his restitution. He already knew that – he had known it since his brother, the brother whom he loved with all of his soul, had smacked him about the head with his words and made that fact clear to him.

He had to try and rekindle in himself the spark of determination that had been put out by the waters of the sea.

He had to, if in Jason Hurk's memory alone, someday find within him a laugh that wanted to escape his lips.

But there was not just his family to look to. The world had been robbed of the three special people, who had given a facet of themselves to those around them. And if they weren't there to spread their gift, then perhaps he would have to. He had done that once, a lifetime ago when boats weren't burning in the Atlantic Ocean. He had possessed what they had once possessed and had squandered that with the selfish pride of a boy who had been too naïve to see his error.

And perhaps, a lifetime in the future, he would be able to find those feelings again. For those three individuals, the new dead, had given him their gifts and their burdens to replace what he had lost. And perhaps, if he could use them to instil within himself the life that he had had before, and if he could learn from what he saw in the past so that he would not err again in the future . . .

Perhaps . . . just perhaps . . . their deaths would not be in vain.

* * *

_TBC in Part IV, "Recovery"_


	33. Recovery

* * *

_Dislcaimer:_ Thunderbirds is the property of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, as well as Carlton and Universal. No profit is intended to be made from this story; it is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended, and none should be inferred. All original characters are the property of the author. This story should not be used or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

* * *

A/N: Remember to check my author profile page (just click on my user name) for extended author notes and review responses! I will also be sending the author notes as review replies to all users who left me a signed review. A huge thank-you goes out to Ariel D for beta reading this chapter. Without her, it would not have happened. Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter; real life always gets in the way.

* * *

**Blood is Thicker Than Water: Part IV  
****Recovery**

**May 2019**

It didn't seem to matter how many times John Tracy walked into a hospital; he just couldn't shed the vague sense of nausea that entered his chest whenever he tread the sanitary white corridors. It didn't even matter which hospital he was in – the feeling inside of him originated in a building in Switzerland and had somehow propagated over to North America.

_This isn't any different than our organisation,_ he thought as he made his way down the critical ward in the direction of the long term care ward. _People arrive with little hope, and with the help of the nurses and doctors some of them manage to leave. _

The familiarity that he had with the hospital scenario had helped John keep his cool when he had first entered the building. His father had dropped him off at the door and had gone to find a place to park the vehicle, leaving John to find Gordon's room on his own. The woman at the desk had been helpful enough, and his delay in reaching the wing that he was looking for was due only to his own remaining uncertainty.

Finally, he caught sight of a receptionist desk labelled, "Long Term". A small woman, her hair tied up into a tight bun, sat behind the desk, her eyes focused intently on some report that sat on the desk surface. John approached quietly, taking care not to startle the woman.

"Excuse me ma'am. I'm here to see Gordon Tracy," he said, handing her a form that his father had given him, adding, "I'm his brother. John."

"Right." Taking the paper, she studied it for a moment, nodded, then pointed further down the hall. "Room Twelve-Thirty on the right."

"Thank-you."

Twelve-Thirty was not hard to find. It was a large and spacious room set on a corner of the wing, with large windows overlooking the waters of the Atlantic coast. Several couches and chairs were set around the white walls of the room, and a large bed sat towards one side.

Opening the glass door carefully, John tiptoed into the room and up to the bedside. His brother lay sleeping peacefully, his eyes closed and his chest falling in a slow rhythmic pattern. The oxygen mask was gone from his face, having been removed fairly soon after the surgery.

John fought down a wave of nausea at the sight, taking instead a nearby chair and dragging it over to the bedside. Just as he sat down with the intent of waiting for Gordon to wake, he was startled by a raspy voice that declared, "I'm drugged, John. Not asleep. There's a difference."

Jumping, John stared for a moment at Gordon – who was suddenly quite coherent-looking – before a short laugh escaped his lips. "You could've fooled me."

A tiny smile pulled at the boy's lips for a moment, then disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. "Yeah. I know. What're you doing here? I thought you were up in space."

"Dad brought me down last night," he explained softly, leaning back into the chair and placing his arms on the arm rests. "Thought you might like to see me."

Gordon grunted and closed his eyes briefly. There was obviously a lot of morphine still in his system, for staying awake seemed to be an effort. "Of course I would. I've been bored stiff."

"There aren't any pretty nurses here?"

"Oh, some." The smile tried to return again. "I'm too much for them to handle."

Keeping silent, John tried to decide how he should explain to his brother why he was really there. The truth had to come out eventually, especially when Gordon realised that John wouldn't be leaving. The same excuse, _I wanted to see you,_ wouldn't work on Gordon twice.

"How are the legs?" John cringed as soon as he asked the question. _Good move, John. You left all your tact behind on the station._

Surprisingly enough, Gordon didn't snap back at him for asking such an awkward question. Instead, he glanced down absently towards his torso, and replied, "They aren't."

"Gord, I'm-"

"Don't be sorry." The boy's voice was resolute. "At least you care. The doctors told me last week that I'll never walk again. I've been stuck in this crummy room for all of eight days, and they're already giving up. But I'm not. I'm gonna prove them wrong. They even told the bloody media that I wouldn't leave this hospital. Told them I was an invalid, because it made a better story. I don't give a shit what they say. I don't care if it's possible or not. I'm gonna walk out of this hospital and tell the media exactly what I think about that."

John didn't have anything to say to that. He was caught completely off guard by Gordon's attitude. From what he had heard from his father, Gordon was to the point of displaying little care for his condition whatsoever. But the Gordon that sat in front of him with fire and determination in his eyes was nothing like that.

And yet, there was something different about him – understandably so – since John had last seen him. Perhaps his will to survive had returned, but underneath that, buried deep in his eyes, lay not an immature recklessness, but a mature and serious edge that spoke of strength.

"They repaired the nerve damage. They told me they couldn't guarantee if the new ends would hold. Or if I'd be able to feel anything. But I'm gonna get out of this bloody bed. I . . . I owe it to the other guys. They don't have the chance to try."

"I . . ." John shook his head. "Geez. I came here thinking I'd be doing you a favour if I could convince you . . . but it looks like you don't need my help."

The words that escaped Gordon's mouth spoke of the world of difference between the boy before and after the accident. "Yeah I do." He glanced down at his chest briefly, a look of embarrassment crossing his face. "I need help. The nurses are trying to do stuff right now, but . . ." He trailed off, his voice becoming softer and more subdued. "I'd rather have someone I know helping me."

That could be arranged. "That's what I came here to talk to you about." When Gordon's head snapped up – as fast as his head could snap up while wrapped in a neck brace – John held up a hand and waved his brother down. "I thought I'd have to convince you to let us help, but . . . Gord, I offered to come down to help you out. Dad and I talked about it, and we both decided that it'd be best if you had the opportunity to recover with the help of family. And I'm the best choice, because I can spend time with you. The others can't, even if they wanted to."

"But what about Thunderbird Five?" Gordon shook his head. "Someone needs to . . ."

"I'll come down for one week," John explained firmly, "every month, once you're out of the hospital." He didn't even dare to suggest 'if' Gordon made it out of the hospital. His brother's attitude left no doubt as to whether he would recover or not. "But for now, I'm here to stay. Dad's found an apartment for me near here, and he's dropping my stuff off later."

Gordon stared at his brother for a long moment, his brown eyes widening.

"Don't argue. IR can continue without me for the moment. Everyone else is perfectly capable of handling the satellite stuff on their own." That wasn't entirely true, of course. But John wasn't about to defeat his argument by explaining to Gordon how the operations were going to suffer while he was away. "You've stuck with me. And . . ." He pursed his lips and dipped his head absently. "It's only been eight days. I'm thinking, what with all your free time, we could do something about your school work."

The teen mulled the question over silently, his eyes turning briefly to the window where the Atlantic lay far beyond the outer walls of the building. "You'd do that?"

"Of course. I've already said that I would. But do you want to?"

Without delay, Gordon nodded and replied, "Yeah. Yeah, I do. It's just that . . ."

John had a feeling about where Gordon's thoughts were going. "It's not easy, Gord. Picking yourself up when you feel like you should stay down. But you're doing the right thing." He sighed. "The past has to be learned from, but the faster that you can let it go, the better." He reached over and clapped his brother tightly on the shoulder, taking care not to press too hard on the burned portions that were covered with gauze. "I don't know about everyone else, but I think you can do this. In fact . . ." A smile worked its way onto his face. "I know you can. This is one time when you're allowed to fight, Gordon. It's time you showed the world what you can do."

And he was rewarded as his smile was reflected on his brother's face.

"Are you allowed to teach me?"

"I went and spoke to your headmaster. They're willing to let me teach you if you're willing to take the standardised tests at the end of the school year. It's the best that I could do-"

"It's good enough." The fire continued to burn even brighter than before. "Thanks."

_You're welcome. It's what brothers do._

On one hand, John didn't know what Gordon would do when he finally got out of the hospital. Things were still murky on a legal front, and he knew – from person experience – that his brother likely wouldn't swim again competitively for a long time, if ever. But life, he also knew, had to be taken one step at a time.

And Gordon, thankfully, was ready to take the first step.

"Let's get started, then."

* * *

_"In other news tonight, doctor's and nurses alike were astounded as seventeen year old Gordon Tracy, sole survivor of the hydrofoil accident at May's National Swim Championship, walked, with the help of his family, to a wheelchair at the doors of the hospital. Four months ago doctors stated that the young man would likely never regain use of his legs again. That has all changed, however, after months of therapy and treatments to stimulate the nerves in his lower body. Hospital officials are now saying that the boy is expected to make a slow but complete recovery. Upon leaving the hospital, Tracy gave a brief statement to reporters. _

_'This day wouldn't have come without the help of my family. And I'm really glad that they stood beside me during this time. I couldn't have asked for any more of them.'_

_'Any other comments, kid? Any plans on swimming again?'_

_'Any thoughts on the handling of the accident? How do you feel about being excused of all charges?'_

_'No. I don't have a statement for that. I don't want to talk about it.'_

_Reporters were unable to obtain any further information from the young man, who was rushed by his family to a waiting vehicle. _

_After a detailed investigation by the National Committee in June, Tracy was allowed to retain his gold medal. It was his only win during the competition. Today marks the four month anniversary of the accident. _

_Now, onto tonight's sports line-up."_

* * *

_TBC in Chapter 34, Redemption._


	34. Redemption

* * *

_Dislcaimer:_ Thunderbirds is the property of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, as well as Carlton and Universal. No profit is intended to be made from this story; it is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended, and none should be inferred. All original characters are the property of the author. This story should not be used or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

* * *

_A/N:_ Remember to check my author profile page (just click on my user name) for extended author notes and review responses! I will also be sending the author notes as review replies to all users who left me a signed review. Thank you again to Ariel-D for beta reading this chapter – we're almost there!

* * *

**Blood is Thicker Than Water: Part V  
****Redemption**

**October 2019**

Thoroughly engrossed in the paper that lay on his desk, Jeff Tracy didn't notice at first when his son walked into the room. The door opened quietly enough that the seventeen year old went undetected until he was a foot from his father's face. It was the sensation of being watched that broke the older man's concentration. Blinking, he set the paper down and looked up.

"Gordon! Where's John? You're not supposed to be using the stairs without help."

The young man shrugged and absently rubbed at his right shoulder. "Having lunch. But I needed to talk you now, and you know how long it takes John to eat." An over exaggerated grimace touched his lips. "There'll be nothing left by the time I get back down there."

"You're lucky you didn't fall back down," Jeff replied, thankful that his son had managed to make it up the stairs on his own. He couldn't hold back the tiny feeling of pride at even a small accomplishment like that, but Gordon hardly needed to be taking unnecessary risks in his own home.

Instead of responding, Gordon simply stood in front of the desk, his knuckles braced against the hard wood, and stared back at his father.

"All right," Jeff finally sighed, grabbing a nearby chair and dragging it over so that his son could sit down. It was very easy to tell when Gordon was serious about something - he didn't joke. And, save the small jab at his brother, he didn't seem to be in a laughing mood.

He hadn't been since the accident really, though Jeff had been ecstatic to see that after more than seven months his son seemed to be perking up again even in the smallest sense. Gordon's recovery had been born of small accomplishments: leaving the hospital on his own, walking again without the aid of a cane when doctor's had declared him a likely paraplegic for life, finishing his classes - given, later than the June graduation date - with the help of his brother . . .

But the hardest part seemed to be an internal battle that Gordon fought daily. It was one where he had to discover for himself what part of him had to be left behind in the wreckage, and what part of him needed to be salvaged and made whole again. Some of his decisions were obvious. Though there was no doubt as to the fire and determination that Gordon Tracy possessed in him, he seemed to be missing a great deal of the anger that he had carried before. That part of his flame, the temper, seemed to have never been lit again.

_Perhaps in the future,_ Jeff thought silently to himself, _we'll see that again. _But he truly doubted that it would be for selfish reasons, and he knew that Gordon would think seriously before making any rash decisions over the remaining years of his life. Some lessons, sadly, were learned the hard way.

"What do you want to talk about?"

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a tiny smile crept onto the young man's face. It was a smile full of sadness, though in his eyes there lay the suggestion that in the future the sadness might vanish to be replaced with some other emotion.

"I've been thinking, Dad. I've been home for three months now, and things have started to slow down a bit. I'm finished with school, I mean, and . . ." He stopped suddenly, his hand absently reaching up to brush a thin white scar that ran from his forehead up to the baseball cap that he wore on his head. The cap had been his companion since he had arrived home, and Jeff had a hunch that Gordon was unwilling to take it off until he was ready to fully accept what had happened. When the recovery was complete, then perhaps Gordon would no longer have to hide the remains of the disaster from himself.

"And you're what, Gordon?"

His eyes staring off into a time and place that his father could not see, Gordon shook his head and looked absently out towards the window. "I'm finished, Dad. I mean, sure I've finished school and all. Sure, I can walk again . . . But I can't do anything. I can't get a job."

Not the type of job that he wanted, at least. Jeff had been the first one to hear about the letter that had arrived from WASP soon after the accident. Enclosed with it had been Gordon's application to the organisation, and the letter had been one of regret and refusal from the commander in chief. They couldn't hire a man who was crippled, let alone one who possibly was untrustworthy with sea vehicles.

"You could, I suppose," Jeff replied carefully after several moments of thought. "There are many areas that you could go into."

"Like what? Dad, I'm good at one thing, and that's swimming. I like the water. But no place," his words caught in his throat, "is gonna hire me after this. I can't work with water. I just can't."

So that was it, then. "Gordon, if you're worried about working, don't worry. You can stay here if you like. I'm not expecting you to work if you can't. But I would like you to try and find a job, because I think there are positions out there-"

"Dad!"

The sudden outburst caught Jeff by surprise. "Gordon, there's no room for debate. I want you to at least try. You can't run away from what happened, and I think you know that."

"I know, Dad," Gordon whispered, his hand still absently grasping at his forehead. "I don't want to run away."

"That's good to hear, Gordon."

"And I may have found a job."

The words echoed around in Jeff's mind a few times before they finally sunk in. "What? Correct me if I'm wrong, son, but I'm pretty sure you just said that you had nowhere to work."

Instead of answering, Gordon looped his finger under the edge of his ball cap. A quick flick of his wrist had the cap in his hand, revealing growing stubble that was not red, but . . .

Brown.

Eyes growing wide, Jeff managed to splutter, "What the hell-"

"It's to keep the secrecy," the now chestnut-haired teen replied calmly. "I mean, people kind of know what I look like. They've seen me on TV, and now that you're having to let that one television station cover the rescues so the communications aren't compromised at the accident scene . . . they'll probably see me again. Only this way it'll make it less obvious. I can dye my eyebrows and stuff too. I just hadn't got there yet. Don't ask me to do all the hair, though. I have my limits, and no one's gonna be looking down there."

Jeff Tracy had expected many things of his son. But he had not expected, from a young man who - save from one day three years back - had never expressed any interest whatsoever in joining the family business, for Gordon to so willingly give himself over to the cause.

How wrong had he been about his son in thinking that he was giving up . . . But perhaps that was because he had not truly seen how strongly the spark of life had returned to his child. Perhaps, just perhaps, he had not sat down to consider why his son forged on with a burning determination.

So as not to make the same mistake he had made once before, Jeff Tracy wisely looked at his boy - a young man, now - and gave him the nod of affirmation that was needed. It was Gordon's choice, and he would not deny his son the opportunity to make the decision that, no matter how hard it seemed to Jeff, was a valid one.

"You're sure about this?"

Gordon nodded in response. "Yeah." For a brief moment, a look passed across the young man's face that Jeff had never seen in all the time that he had raised the former redhead: humility.

"I can't do anything else," Gordon finally admitted in resignation, "but I want to do something. I can't just sit here, after everything that's happened, and not do anything. But I think you were right Dad, all those years ago." A passing ray of light from the waters outside the window twinkled off a slowly forming pool of liquid in his eyes. "I was right, too. This organisation of yours . . . It _is_ worth something. It's something special, and I still want to be a part of it." He met Jeff's gaze with as steady a one as he could hold. "If you'll still let me."

Had he not seen the humiliation on his son's face, so naked and exposed for mere seconds, Jeff might have been inclined to think on the matter. After all, it had been a decision born of immaturity - no matter how noble the intentions had been - that had landed Gordon in the mess that he was in.

But the Gordon that had piloted that hydrofoil had died the moment the craft had hit the water. In his place was a young man who carried the same determination, who might eventually - and indeed showed signs of it - recover his sense of humour, and who had seen enough on that night back in May to halt any man in his tracks.

It was _that _young man who had walked in his father's office, and was unselfishly pledging his life for a cause that might be able to, or so Jeff thought, redeem him in the eyes of the deceased. And that young man, who was mature and lacking in innocence, was a person who Jeff Tracy knew he could trust.

"You won't be able to fly missions right away. You realise that, don't you? You need to learn how to run the craft, and I want you to rest up a bit more before you do anything physical."

"I know. I can learn though, Dad. You have simulators. I don't need to be able to run or even walk to do that."

"And I suppose that you'd like Thunderbird Four, given that-"

"No." Biting his lip, Gordon shrugged in apology and lowered his head so that Jeff couldn't see the young man's eyes. "No. I'd like to learn to fly Thunderbird Three."

A thought struck Jeff then, but he kept it buried deep inside, knowing that things would be better if he never revealed to his son how much he knew about his reasoning. He had a feeling that Gordon was aware of how obvious his feelings had suddenly become. "Thunderbird Three is my ship, Gordon. We gave Virgil Two when he joined."

"But you fly Thunderbird Two, sometimes, when Virgil needs help."

He knew why Gordon didn't want the submarine. He knew that some wounds still remained to be healed, and that water was currently not appealing to his son. His worry about not being able to work with the water suddenly made sense. It was not an inhibition imposed by society, but by his own mind.

"Why Thunderbird Three, then?"

"Because I owe John a favour," Gordon blurted out, pinching his lips together as he spoke. "And I . . ." He paused in order to think his words through. "I wanna take him back next time he goes up to the station."

That was a noble enough goal in itself, given how much John had helped his brother during his recovery time. But perhaps a compromise could still be reached. "If I allow you to do that, will you promise me that you'll continue to train in the others areas? I'd like you to eventually be able to sit in on missions with Virgil, so that he could fly instead of performing the rescues himself. That would be the ideal situation if you were to join."

He never mentioned Thunderbird Four, though he knew that Gordon would make the connection that eventually he might be called on to perform a rescue with the craft. It was one last sacrifice that he would have to make. He would have to convince himself that he could get over the accident enough to make use of his greatest skill and talent.

"We need you, Gordon, and not just as a pilot. I have no doubt that you could learn. I'm not expecting you to fly solo by any means. But . . ."

"I know." Cutting his father off, Gordon waved a hand in the air and extended his other towards his father. "I know what you mean, Dad. And I'm willing to do it."

Jeff took his son's hand firmly in his, giving it a hard shake and looking deep into the brown eyes that stared back at him. He was so proud of his son. Seven months ago he had been afraid to lose him forever. Four months ago he had wondered what his son would do with himself. Now, when everything was finished and things were starting anew, he had been shown that his hope had not been in vain.

And by the look of excitement that was slowly spreading across Gordon Tracy's eyes, Jeff was not alone in his feelings.

"Now go tell your brothers."

Nodding, Gordon grinned widely, put his hat back on, tipped it towards his father, and stumbled out of his chair towards the door.

"Gordon! Slow down! _Do not run down the stairs_!"

"Gotta go, Dad," called the rambunctious young man, as he closed the door behind him. "Just remembered, John might eat my lunch if I don't get back soon."

Some things, Jeff thought wryly as he listened for his son's less than graceful footsteps receding in the distance, would never die, no matter how hard they were suppressed in a person.

* * *

Never had John Tracy been so satisfied as he was now. It wasn't the fact that he was finally back at the station that elated him nor the breathless awe that he experienced every time he gazed out to the realm of deep space. No, it was a contentment born of pride, the most pride that he had ever felt in his life, for what his younger brother had accomplished.

They stood side-by-side, shoulders almost touching save for John's extra height, facing outward towards the vast emptiness of space and the glowing ball of blue sapphire that was the Earth. For many moments there was simply silence as they watched the planet rotate slowly about its axis, storms and sand dunes and crystal oceans fading in and out of existence as the sunlight struck its mighty surface.

"It's nice," Gordon finally said softly. He nodded once, bit his lip, then continued to stare. "I can see why you like it up here."

"And why I miss being on the ground." John smiled sadly. "It's hard to _not_ miss the Earth when you can literally hold out your hand and hold all of its beauty between your fingers."

"You sound like a poet." The young man snorted and ran his fingers through thick locks of brown hair.

"That bad, huh? Well, you seem to like it here. How about you give it a shot?" The blond grinned at his brother's nonchalant attitude. "No? I guess we're set, then."

Gordon shrugged, then repeated, "It's nice. But it's not home. I'd rather be someplace else." His voice trailed off, and his eyes grew distant. "I'll leave this 'Bird to you. If dad asks, tell him that I'm waiting for him in Thunderbird Three." Reaching over to clap his hand on John's shoulder, Gordon smiled briefly then walked slowly out of the room, his footsteps heavy with the limp that he still carried.

The feeling that had settled in his stomach intensified, and John leaned forward so that he could balance himself on the window's edge. The butterflies from the flight were still there, but intermixed with them were his feelings for his brother. The way Gordon had said it, _"I'd rather be someplace else."_

It was his redemption, John thought sadly. The more that Gordon recovered, the more he slowly grew towards the person that he used to be, the more he seemed to cling onto a sense of nobility that baffled most of his family. There was no doubt left that the young man would eventually recover most if not all of his physical strength. That was evident daily in his sure if still heavy stride. Yet . . .

"Is this the part where I offer you two pennies?"

John whirled around at his father's voice. Several seconds passed before he realized what the older man was even talking about. "Three years and I only get one more?" He grinned. "Interest rates aren't what they used to be."

Jeff returned the smile and moved to stand beside his son. "No, but what you put in the bank you get to keep. And I'm still interested in hearing your thoughts, son, if you still want to share them."

But he didn't have a thought at that moment. More than anything, John had a question that he wanted answered.

"Do you think he'll be okay?" The words slipped from his mouth before he could even think. All at once, in his mind, the rest of it tumbled out.

_Will he forgive himself?_

_How long will this go on?_

_Why can't he just get on with things?_

And as the questions came, so too, strangely, did the answers. He didn't even have to look at his father to know that the older man was still smiling. Because he knew the answers . . . He knew _the answer_, the answer that his father gave for everything when life became tough and sometimes unlivable.

"We're Tracys," he said quietly.

That was it. There was no other answer; they were Tracy sons, all of them, including Gordon. What they knew to do best, above all, was survive. It was what they did. It was what they were still doing. And it was what they would do in the future.

"I seem to remember a young boy that couldn't let go of the past," Jeff said, his voice gentle. "He wanted to do whatever he could, on his own, to right the world. Happen to know him?"

"I might." It seemed like such a life-time ago, yet there was no forgetting the memories that were as fresh as the feeling in his gut. "Natural blond hair? Mute? Paranoid?"

"Sounds about right." The older man sighed and banged his hand lightly against the window frame, so that it landed beside his son's. "He's still hurting. We all know how long that can last. But he's doing what he needs to do - he's moving on. One thing I've learned, John, is that this family doesn't go down easily. We stand proud while we're shot, and even then we run until we can't run anymore. It's our strength, that strength, that holds us all together. _We_ keep each other upright. Look at _you,_ at what you've done for Gordon." John quickly looked away, and his father laughed. "Determination? You showed that boy what he needed to do. When others would have cried and thrown in the towel, you stood by him and helped him through. You all did."

"I just . . . I couldn't let him down. And . . . I'm . . ." He took a deep breath. "I'm damn proud of him."

"That's it, then." The older man laughed with a confidence that echoed that which lay deep in John's own heart. "That's what we are. We're proud of what we're accomplished, and we won't let anyone beat us. We _are_ Tracys, John. And nothing is ever going to change that."

With those words, John let all doubt fade from his mind. Nothing had ever stopped them before, and nothing would now. They had beaten the odds just like before. They couldn't change the past; the dead couldn't walk again. But they could carve the future to resemble the past in a way that it would be better than it had ever been before. When tragedy struck, they clasped hands tightly and strove forward, heads head high.

They were strong of spirit, and that spirit . . .

That spirit was unbeatable.

The two both looked out the window, then, their hearts filled with the hope of those words and the need to believe them. Life was never predictable. It was seldom safe, and it was often dangerous. But it could never be life at all if a person believed that and wallowed in fear and doubt forever. Sometime, at some point, a person had to go on. A family had to go on.

_Just as we have_, John thought, a smile finally finding its way onto his face, for the little boy in him knew that his mother would be proud of them all. In the window, a pale reflection mirrored the smile, and a pair of blue eyes twinkled steadily amongst the distant stars.

* * *

_To be concluded in the epilogue._


	35. Reflection and Final Thoughts

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_Dislcaimer:_ Thunderbirds is the property of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, as well as Carlton and Universal. No profit is intended to be made from this story; it is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended, and none should be inferred. All original characters are the property of the author. This story should not be used or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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_A/N:_ The final author's note can be found at the end of this chapter. Review responses to Chapter 34 (and _full_ author's notes) can be found on my author's page, and will also be 'mailed' to all that reviewed.

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**Reflection and Final Thoughts  
****December 2019**

The view out the bay windows was spectacular. Jeff Tracy, sitting in a relaxed fashion by his study desk, gazed out at the landscape before him, awed by the way the water stretched out infinitely to the horizon until it seemed to touch the sky. After spending the last four hours walking around in the artificially lit cavern underneath the home, he appreciated the simple gesture that the sun and the waves were giving him.

The amber hues of the sun gave him all the light that he needed in the room. Long pumpkin-coloured shadows wrapped around the desk and the filing cabinets, until they touched the spot on the wall where the hidden entrance to the hanger lay. Jeff's eyes darted to the wall for a moment, lingering on the sprawling mural of his family that adorned the wall.

It was an incredible thought when he truly considered it. What had been merely a passing dream almost nine years ago was now a reality, a plausible and thriving organization that was truly doing what it had been created to do.

How much had things changed! Not only the mural, but so many other things had been altered over the course of time. What had once been a ragtag study was now headquarters for a secret organization. What had once been a pool was now the roof over one of the most advanced air ships ever designed.

A tiny smile crept onto Jeff's face, a smile that spoke of both contentment and sadness. His eyes, having left the safety of the cavern door, had slowly drifted to a set of photographs on his desk. One, taken eight years ago, showed him and the boys in an old car, parked by what he remembered to be the ocean.

The other, taken ten years ago, showed the boys dressed up in skiing gear, surrounding a person who Jeff knew all too well and missed all too dearly.

_If you could see them now_, he thought, the sadness in his smile deepening as he looked into the glimmering eyes of Lucy Tracy. The picture had truly captured her spirit - the mischief there, the humour, and the endless springs of compassion that had been her heart. But it was not only in her face that he saw those characteristics. They were plainly visible in the children around her, their faces each reflecting something of their mother.

Many things had changed since that photo had been taken. Chances had been lost, family had been gained, and so much had been given away in return for something more.

When he thought back to that moment ten years ago, Jeff was amazed to see that his children really hadn't changed that much. The mischief, intelligence, and the love that ran so thickly in their veins was still there. Even now, while most of them were independent and self-assured adults in their own right, he could still see the flickering remnants of their childhood buried deep within their eyes.

"What have we gained?" Jeff asked quietly, he eyes holding the face of his wife, gently following the curve of her chin, taking in the details that he could remember distantly in the back of his mind. "How much have you given them?"

Everything, he knew – more than he ever would have dreamed. Nine years ago he had knelt at her bedside in fear, wondering how he would raise five young boys without her help. But she hadn't abandoned him. Her presence, invisible as it was, was always there, in the memories of her children, and it had driven them and directed them along a path that made Jeff proud to think about.

"Lucy," he sighed, pursing his lips as the moisture grew in his eyes. He tried to stop it from coming, tried to will the tears away, but they came anyway. Wiping his face, Jeff stood up from the chair and walked to the window.

The warm glow of the sunset danced across the waters of the South Pacific, casting golden rays onto the pool below and the figures that lay within. There they were: his family, enjoying the first day of a summer when they would all be together under one roof.

It was time to join them.

Turning away from the window, Jeff quietly walked to the door. His hand brushed the door latch as he went out, but something pulled at him and he was unable to leave. Looking behind him, he gave one last glance at the picture that rested on his desk. Even from a distance, in the fading sunlight, he could clearly see Lucy's radiant hair and her glowing eyes.

The door slid silently behind him, Jeff having finally been able to will himself to close it. Even from the upper room he could hear the faint sounds of his boys at play, their strong voices mixing and melting into a joyous tumult that pulled him down the stairs to the outside world.

He went towards his children, the part of his world that brought him so much joy and happiness. They were his boys, young men with minds of their own, whom had given their own blood to his cause. And he went to his friends, old and new, who were joined with him as deeply as any blood relative.

Towards his world, filled with promise and hope that was perched so carefully on the memory of the woman who he had left in the picture frame. He thought of the ships, thought of the past nine years, and allowed a truly warm and wonderful smile to drift onto his face. For all that he had lost that night in December, he had gained the world.

Advent, he thought suddenly, was a time to prepare for birth. What had been born for him had not been a child, however, but a future. The winds of change had swept through his life on that dark day nine years ago, bringing soft December snow to the Swiss Alps and a fresh beginning for them all.

"Thank you, Lucy," he whispered quietly, "for everything."

With that, Jeff Tracy walked from his home on his own little island, and rejoined the world that had been created for him by his wife.

Upstairs in the study, the photo of Lucy Tracy continued to smile.

_FIN_

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_A/N2:_ Thank you everyone. Thank you, thank you, thank you for the tremendous response you have given this story, and to your patience during the months when I did not post. Several things happened to me last year, and although writing was a nice break, it was not always possible.  
Since I will not be posting review responses for this final epilogue, I would like to thank everyone heartily here. Reviewers are precious people, especially those who review again and again. I also hope that all of you who read, but did not review, enjoyed the story, and I appreciate you reading all the same. Your words give me inspiration to keep writing. 

And last but not least, **the biggest thank-you goes to my friend and beta reader Ariel-D**, who took the time out to wade through 250 plus pages of single-spaced, size ten font. John Tracy may rule the stars, but you rule the world of pencil, paper, and red-pens of editing plus ten. Please everyone; extend your utmost gratitude to her, for without her help, this story would not be the quality that it is. (I swear, the next one won't be as long! I think!)

I will freely admit that I won't be writing anymore Thunderbirds stories. This is due to both a change in interests and a lack of ideas. I have a few extra one-shot stories written, two of which I may edit and post as an addition to this story. They both happen during or immediately after the movie, so keep an eye out for them just in case. Other than that, this story officially ends the Christmas before the movie. (See my author's page for more details about my other writing in an extended Author's Note posted there.)

Again, thank you for all the support and the kind words. Writing this has been a learning experience, and one that I will cherish dearly. Take care, everyone, and thanks for stopping by. Darkhelmetj out.


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